


Wild Child

by PyrrhaIphis



Series: Catching up to the present [2]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, Kid Fic, Long, M/M, New Year's Eve, Rock Tour, The infamous foul mouth of Curt Wild, a bit domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 95,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: Curt Wild and Arthur Stuart have been living together for more than three years now in (relative) happiness.  But after a particularly bad argument, Curt storms out of the apartment in a fit.  When he returns the next morning, there's a note in his pocket that reads "Call about the boy."  But Curt doesn't remember who the note came from, or what it's talking about...(Reminder:  / is for romance, & is for friendship.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you notice any inappropriate Americanisms coming from the mouths (or POVs) of any British characters! Thanks!
> 
> BTW, I'm a little worried that I didn't make it entirely clear until several chapters in exactly what year this is starting out in: it's 1987. (And if you're confused by the changes to their lives since the movie--like Arthur's new workplace--those come from the previous work in this series.)

            More or less, it was a typical Wednesday.  Distinguished from the other days of the week primarily by what shows were on TV during prime time.  For most Americans, it was probably a pretty crazy day, being the day before Thanksgiving, but for someone with no family—none worth associating with, anyway—and an English lover, it was just Wednesday.

            Once upon a time, Curt Wild wouldn’t have been out of bed before ten on a day when he wasn’t in the studio recording a song, or out on tour.  Once upon a time.

            Actually, that time wasn’t _that_ remote.  Four or five years ago, he’d have slept as late as he wanted on a day he wasn’t expected to do anything.  But that was before Mr. Responsible had moved in with him.

            Not that Curt regretted having his lover share his apartment—though there were always frustrations coming from trying to share the space, particularly in the bathroom.  He just found it irritating that he was the irresponsible one—the one no one trusted to get the trash out on time, or to pay the utilities, or anything else normal and mundane like that—even though he was the older by ten years.  If they had gotten together the day they first met, back in 1974, no one would have called Curt the irresponsible one.  But somehow in the decade they were apart, Arthur Stuart had gone from being a giddy teenager—dressed to seduce, and drugged to the gills—to being a responsible, respectable man who was actually a bit of a stick in the mud around the edges.  God only knows how much further he might have sunk if he and Curt hadn’t managed to find each other again!  Poor man might have ended up turning into his father.

            Curt had spent the last three years trying to fix all those boring little flaws Arthur had developed, but they’d become sadly ingrained, and no amount of work had yet managed to dislodge them.  And one of those flaws was that Arthur liked to get up at an ungodly hour—rarely later than seven!—even though his new place of employment didn’t require him to go sit in an office from nine to five every day.

            And if Arthur was getting up, Curt pretty much had to get up, too.  Not that Arthur would have ever demanded it of him—one of his other flaws was a tendency not to stand up for himself except when he _really_ had to, though he’d probably had _that_ flaw all along—but Curt found it impossible to keep sleeping when someone else was futzing around in the bedroom and the bathroom, getting dressed and otherwise making noise.

            So here he was, already up and dressed at eight o’clock in the fucking morning.

            If anyone who knew him back in the day could see him now, they’d probably laugh their asses off.

            He’d had all the breakfast he was hungry for—he’d probably want more in an hour or so, when it was finally a decent time to get up—so Curt wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.  For a delusional moment, he contemplated turning on the TV to see if there was anything to watch, but at this time of day it’d be nothing but syrupy talk shows, or maybe the news.  He got too much news already, living with a reporter.  He didn’t want any more of it.  And those talk shows gave him the hives.

            But maybe he could do something else with the TV.  Put a movie in the VCR.  Maybe if it was spicy enough, it’d distract Arthur from whatever work he was planning on doing today.  That seemed like an excellent idea to Curt, so he headed into the den.  Before he could pick which porno to put in, he noticed that he’d left his guitar out on the sofa last night.  Sometimes honest practice ended up turning into horny sex, because seeing Curt playing his guitar was one of the few things guaranteed to turn Arthur on.  And that meant things like taking care of his equipment got left for later.

            That was no good, though.  Curt had had that guitar for seventeen years; he needed to take care of it.  So before he got on with the morning’s fun, he decided he’d better check if it needed any tending.  He had barely touched his guitar when the pick—which had been left haphazardly on top—went sliding off onto the floor, skittering over to a stop next to the new bookshelf beside the entertainment center.

            It was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it?

            Curt went to retrieve the pick, but as he bent to grab it, he noticed that one foot of the bookshelf was resting on a piece of paper.  No, not any piece of paper.  It was the manual for a Nintendo game.  Shit, that was no good.  But if he just lifted up the bookshelf, all Arthur’s fidgety little crap would slip off and crash down onto the floor, becoming so much broken glass.  Probably wouldn’t do Curt’s awards much good, either.

            Maybe if he was _really_ careful, he could just get the manual to slide out without lifting the bookshelf.  It was worth a try, anyway.

            Curt was still trying to get the manual to move when he heard Arthur’s voice from behind him.  “No fair turnin’ me on as I’m tryin’ to go to work,” he said.

            Curt laughed, and started waggling his ass in the direction the voice had come from.  Soon Arthur was standing right behind him, pressed up against him, hands on Curt’s hips.  Arthur played at humping him, and Curt ground his ass back into each pretend thrust, hoping to turn him on for real and keep him from going out.

            It didn’t work.  After less than a minute—probably not much more than fifteen seconds, in fact!—Arthur stepped away, and gave Curt’s ass an appreciative pat.  “I’ve got to go, love,” he said.  “Be back in time for dinner.”

            “Wait, c’mon, you don’t really have to go!” Curt insisted, straightening up and turning to look at his lover.  Arthur had slicked all his wavy brown hair back with gel—as usual—making him appear much less attractive than he actually was.  He was really dressed up, though.  An actual suit, with a tie, even.  Of course, he had also used the pin with the green crystal—the one Curt had given him just before they started dating—as a tie tack.  Why the _fuck_ was he so dressed up, though?  “Stay here and let’s go back to bed,” Curt urged. 

            “I can’t do that,” Arthur sighed.  “It’s the last day of the conference.  If I stay here, I can’t cover it, can I?”

            “But—”

            Arthur cut off Curt’s objection with a kiss.  “I’ll come back the minute it’s over.  Promise.”  He started heading for the door out of the apartment without waiting for Curt to reply.  “While I’m gone, you should be gettin’ ready for your album to come out.”

            “I’m already ready!” Curt shouted after him, but the front door was shutting even as he said it.

            Just what the fuck did Arthur think he still needed to do about the album?  It was coming out on the 4th, so he was long done with it.  Maybe if the record sold really well, _Rolling Stone_ or someone would want to call him up for an interview, but there wasn’t much he could do to make that happen, and it was pointless to prepare for an interview that wasn’t likely to happen.

            This would be the third record he’d put out since getting together with Arthur, so to the untrained eye it might have seemed like Curt’s career was making a real comeback; he hadn’t released albums that frequently since the mid-‘70s.  But none of them sold all that well.  They didn’t sell _badly_ , as such, but they weren’t exactly burning their way up the charts, either.  They sold just well enough that the label was willing to let him put out more albums.  Realistically, they seemed like proof that he really was a has-been now; only the die-hard fans who’d been following his career since the ‘70s were buying his records.  The real reason he’d put out so many lately was that he was finally having no trouble writing new songs again.  Though maybe that was part of the reason the albums didn’t sell all that well:  it was hard to convince a conservative ‘80s audience to listen to a man singing a love song about another man, but re-writing them to be about a girl instead of about Arthur just hadn’t worked out.

            Suddenly feeling depressed, Curt turned to look at the bookshelf.  It held a number of reference books on all sorts of weird topics Arthur had done stories on over the past three years, as well as a thick stack of issues of _Freedoms_ , the gay rights magazine that Arthur still worked for, despite all Curt’s urging to try and move to a music industry magazine, or to get a job at an actual _news_ magazine, since that seemed to be where Arthur actually _wanted_ to be.  But he had an annoying sense of loyalty that prevented him from quitting without provocation.  On the top shelf were a few awards Curt had won for his music—no Grammies, sadly—and sprinkled here and there among the books and magazines on the lower shelves were old bottles Arthur had picked up at flea markets and such.  _Why_ he had decided to collect bottles that looked like they pre-dated World War I was a mystery to Curt, but…well, at least it wasn’t a terribly expensive hobby.  Curt spent a lot more on his video games.

            That’s right, the manual!  Crouching down to move aside the bit of carpeting that was hiding most of the manual, Curt saw it wasn’t even the manual to one of his own games:  it was the manual for _The Legend of Zelda_.  Shit, Arthur would have a fit if he found out about that.  There weren’t many games in their library that were his, after all.  But the damn thing did _not_ want to move with the shelf on top of it.

            No choice, then.  Miserably, Curt started moving stuff off the bookshelf and onto the sofa or the coffee table.  Once it was empty, he’d be able to lift it off the manual.

            While he was going through that monotonous task, Curt couldn’t help thinking about what had just passed between him and Arthur.  Every aspect of that would have been unimaginable when they first started dating.  Well, not the part where Arthur put his work ahead of their sex life.  That had always been there, unfortunately.  But the rest of it…

            It had taken a long time before Curt was willing to play the passive role in bed.  After all, why would he want to?  It didn’t feel as good, and considering how they had first met, it was downright embarrassing.  The thought had briefly crossed his mind, in their first summer together, while they were celebrating the ten year anniversary of the first time they had fucked.  It had occurred to him then that it would have been more fair if they switched roles sometimes, but he couldn’t bear the idea.  He had thought of it again, once in a while, over the next six months, but he just wasn’t ready to give up his dignity for a relationship that was destined to be short term.

            When they hit their first anniversary, something _changed_.  Curt still wasn’t sure what, but suddenly he didn’t want to let go.  Up until then he’d been expecting that he’d end up driving Arthur away the way he’d driven away everyone else he’d ever dated, and he hadn’t seen anything wrong with that; it was just how his life worked.  But something about that anniversary date made him realize he didn’t want it to end like that.  That night, he’d finally offered to let Arthur do the fucking, instead of being the one getting it.

            The look on Arthur’s face had been priceless.  The giddy smile was there, of course.  God, how Curt loved that giddy smile!  But there had been other things, too.  A lot of uncertainty, a hint of fear, and a crinkling of the forehead that Curt had come to learn meant that Arthur was feeling undeserving.  The more he thought back on that expression, the more it surprised him that Arthur had eventually, if uncertainly, decided to accept the offer.  He’d been almost timid about it, like he expected Curt to change his mind and get angry at him mid-act.  Maybe that really was what he’d been thinking; considering how much Curt had had to drink that night, it wouldn’t have been impossible.  Even after he seemed to accept that Curt really wasn’t going to change his mind, Arthur had kept going very slowly, right up until he was about to come; then he had sped up so suddenly that Curt thought for a moment that something was actually wrong.

            But the next day, everything had been right back to normal between them.  No matter what Arthur had to say about Curt’s immaturity—and he’d said a mouthful on the subject, repeatedly—in some ways he had still been the same teenage boy inside that he had been when they first met; even by the time they’d been together for a year, Arthur’s hero-worship hadn’t really turned into genuine love yet.  So every time he played the active role in bed, he had been terribly self-conscious about it, like he didn’t have any right to be entering the body of the man he idolized.

            Curt wasn’t sure how that had managed to change over the past three years— _nearly_ three years—but it certainly had.  Arthur was now completely comfortable with every sexual role Curt could think of, and was even ready to tease Curt about it, sometimes rather mercilessly.  Surprisingly, he _still_ always started out thrusting slowly, though now it was an intense, deliberate kind of slowness, rather than the trepidation it had been initially.  And the tempo change near the end…!  That was Curt’s favorite part, by far.  Though he still preferred to be the one doing the fucking, of course.  Thankfully, Arthur seemed to like it better that way anyway.

            All this thinking about their sex life was making Curt horny.  Just when Arthur was out of the apartment all fucking day.

            Yeah, it was absolutely one of those days.

            The frustration was probably why Curt yanked the bookcase off the floor too hard.  It went crashing out of his hand and smashed into the wall, leaving behind a big gash.  It even hit one of the framed posters, breaking the glass.

            “Fuck!”

            Now he was going to have to take the poster to be re-framed—or to get new glass, anyway— _and_ he was going to have to do something to patch up the drywall.

            He really didn’t want to.  Hell, he didn’t even want to put the shit back on the shelf.

            So he sat down on the floor and started rooting through the drawer where he kept his game cartridges.  Finding the one he wanted, Curt swapped it for the cartridge currently in the machine, then turned on the Nintendo.

            Killing a bunch of zombies and shit would make him feel better.  Though he probably wouldn’t get much past the stupid fucking giant bat at the end of the first stage.

            Once he was calmed down, he’d get all the stuff done he needed to.  It’d all be cleaned up by the time Arthur got home, and he’d never have to know anything had happened.


	2. Chapter 2

            The whole conference had been pretty depressing, but this last day had really taken the biscuit for inducing mind-numbing depression.  The principle speaker seemed convinced that the human race was a planetary virus that corrupted everything it touched, and after listening to him talk a while, Arthur had started to agree with him.  The best thing for the world would be for humans to just stop reproducing and die out.  Well, at least Arthur was doing his part there:  so long as he was with Curt, neither of them would be making any babies to add to the planet’s continuing population problems.  And he had never driven a car in his life, so at least he’d done some small part to combat the menace of pollution.  Curt’s GTO was another issue, but at least he rarely drove it, because the traffic in the city was so bad that driving was terribly unpleasant.

            Curt excelled at avoiding anything unpleasant, after all.

            That was part of the problem that had been weighing Arthur down all day, even before the conference had started:  Curt found it unpleasant to play the passive role, and yet this morning he had been offering just that.  He was getting clingy again, and that was a bad sign.  His affections came and went in waves; after he had been overly affectionate for a while, he would draw back and become distant.

            The first time hadn’t been too bad.  The first clingy period had lasted about four or five months, from shortly after they got together to the anniversary of the night they met back in 1974.  They had rented a very posh hotel room with a magnificent view of the city, and they were standing out on the balcony, murmuring sweet remembrances of the passion they had shared on that London rooftop.

            Arthur had said it without thinking:  “I’ve always wondered why none of the papers the next day talked about that flyin’ saucer.”

            Curt had started laughing so hard that Arthur had gone from worrying he was going to hurt himself to being offended by it.  When Curt had finally calmed down enough to be able to speak and say that there hadn’t been any flying saucer, Arthur had tried to stay reasonable, and had pointed out that Curt had specifically called attention to the night sky above them, and why had he done that if he _hadn’t_ seen that spaceship?

            “There was a meteor shower,” Curt had laughed.  “You know, ‘the stars are falling,’ and all that?  I can’t believe you thought you were seeing a fucking UFO!  Damn, I’m lucky you were seeing _me_ and not someone else!”

            Arthur had been a touch ticked off by that, and it had nearly ruined the evening for them, but Curt had eventually apologised for laughing, and they had gone to bed for some particularly delightful sex.  But that had ended the initial clingy phase of the relationship.

            Curt hadn’t started getting clingy again until their one year anniversary.  That time it had lasted about two and a half months.  Then they had gotten into what was still the worst fight of their relationship.

            It had started when Arthur got a lengthy letter from Malcolm.  That shouldn’t have raised any problems.  Curt knew Arthur had been living—and sleeping—with the Flaming Creatures in London for years, and he also knew that it was long over.  And yet when he saw that Arthur was intently reading the letter, he became irate.  It was absurd, and Arthur had tried to point that out in calm, rational terms.  Though the Flaming Creatures hadn’t parted from each other as friends, they had all parted from Arthur as friends, and there was no reason for him not to keep in touch with such dear friends.

            Curt hadn’t seen the sense in that, and had continued to vent his jealous rage until Arthur had become so fed up with it that he had turned the tables on his lover, pointing out how Curt had recently gotten over his feud with Tommy Stone, and now they were almost friends.  How could Curt justify being jealous of Arthur having contact with a former lover on the other side of a bloody ocean when he had become friendly with the former love of his life who only lived on the other side of town?

            They had ended up screaming at each other until the neighbours called the police to report the disturbance.  Once the officers left again, Arthur had retreated into his office, locking the door behind him.  It had started out as a guest bedroom, and the bed had remained after its conversion to Arthur’s office—it was still there even now—so he was able to sleep in there.  He had, in fact, kept sleeping in his office for a week.

            By the end of that week, he had ended up having a bit of a breakdown in the coffee shop down the street; he had been checking listings of flats for rent, and the realisation that he was about to lose the man he loved forever had struck him so hard that he hadn’t been able to do anything but sit there crying into his tea.  Curt had found him while he was still crying, and had comforted him, apologising and promising he wouldn’t let his jealousy run roughshod over their relationship ever again.

            That was the last really serious spat they’d had, but Curt also hadn’t gotten clingy again since that time.  Not, that is, until this morning.  If he was being clingy again, was there an even worse fight in their future?

            Arthur wasn’t sure he could survive anything worse than that last fight.

            But maybe if the period of clinginess didn’t last very long, the fight would be less intense?  No, surely that wasn’t it:  the first clingy period had been longer, but the fight had been quite mild.  Then was Arthur going to have to walk on tiptoes to keep from upsetting Curt until he had been clingy for more than six months?

            That seemed all but impossible.

            Arthur spent the entire commute home worrying about it, and he still hadn’t come to any firm conclusion by the time he entered their flat.  Rather than coming in and hearing the sweet strains of Curt’s guitar as he practiced for the public appearances that a newly released record might lead to, Arthur could only hear the rather less than melodic sounds of the Nintendo, accompanied by the occasional curse word coming from Curt’s lips.

            That only left him slightly dismayed, until he reached the living room.  Curt was sitting on the floor in front of the telly, apparently unaware of the fact that their brand new bookcase had fallen over, spilling books and bric-a-brac all over the couch and table, and leaving a rent in the wall.  Instead, he was just calmly playing a video game.

            “What the bloody hell happened in here?!” Arthur exclaimed.

            Curt threw down the controller and leapt to his feet.  “Arthur?!  You’re home early!”

            Arthur sighed.  He wanted to launch into Curt for being so irresponsible, but…what if that was the spark that would signal the end of everything?  “You mean you’ve been sittin’ in here playin’ _Castlevania_ all day?” he asked, trying his best to stay calm.  “What about the shelf?  You knocked into it as you were playin’, I suppose?”

            “Uh, no, see, what happened was…”  Curt’s voice trailed off, and he laughed uncomfortably.  “I was gonna get it all cleaned up, but I was pretty stressed out, and I thought I’d just play a level or two.  But then I got all the way up to fucking Dracula!” Curt exclaimed, gesturing back at the television, which was by now had returned to the starting menu, since his poor vampire hunter had been horribly killed the instant Curt’s back was turned.

            “If you beat the game, then why—”

            “I didn’t say I beat it,” Curt sighed.  “After I knocked his fucking head off, he turned into a…giant…bat…demon… _thing_ ,” Curt said, shaking his head, “and I died.  But if I got there once, maybe I could get back again, right?  So…”

            “So you’ve spent all day trying to get back through the entire bloody game.”  Arthur sighed, and shook his head.  “I suppose I’d do the same in your shoes,” he claimed.  Honestly, he couldn’t imagine caring enough to bother.  Surveying the damage to the wall, he noticed that the poster hanging right above the hole was also wrecked.  “We should do something about the damage,” he said.  “Perhaps if we hurry, we can buy some supplies to fix the wall…”

            Curt looked at his watch—which he had apparently been ignoring all day—and shook his head.  “No point,” he announced.

            “Why not?”

            “’Cause tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, remember?  Everything’s gonna be closed by now.”

            Arthur sighed.  Bad enough that America had to make up its own holidays, but then they had to make them take up so much more time than necessary!  “I suppose it’ll have to wait until Friday, then.  Let’s at least clean up the rest of this mess, all right?”

            Curt nodded, then smiled almost shyly.  “You’re not mad at me?”

            “A little annoyed, but no, I’m not cross.”  What an absurd question!  Why should Curt be worried that _Arthur_ might be upset with him?  Curt was the one who held all the power in their relationship, after all.

            Curt grinned, and moved in close to give Arthur a passionate kiss.  Then, without a word of complaint, he helped Arthur to pick up the books and magazines and whatnot and place them back on the shelf.  At least the shelf itself wasn’t damaged.  That was some small consolation.  But fixing that wall was not going to be easy.  They should probably have someone in to do it, but…Arthur really didn’t like letting strangers into the flat unnecessarily.  There was too much chance they might be working with the tabloids, looking for some sensational bit of gossip.  Curt’s career was in its twilight, but the tabloids still loved to gossip about his ‘scandalous’ affair with another man.  As if there weren’t thousands of other men just like them!

            As he was arranging Curt’s awards on the top shelf, Arthur couldn’t help feeling guilty about them.  Only one of those awards had a public, televised award ceremony, and the press had paid all too much attention to the fact that Arthur had gone with Curt to the ceremony.  He couldn’t help feeling that was why Curt was no longer receiving any Grammy nominations; whoever was in charge of the nominations couldn’t stand the idea of a man bringing another man as his date to their award ceremony.

            He also didn’t get why Curt insisted on putting that award at the back of the collection.  It was the most prestigious of them, so shouldn’t Curt have been proudest of it?  Of course, it had led directly to Curt’s uneasy friendship with the man his ex-lover had become, so Arthur wasn’t terribly fond of seeing it, either.  Knowing that Curt could now talk to Tommy Stone _without_ calling him a ‘motherfucker’ or any other virulent insult did not do Arthur’s nerves any good.  Anyone else might have felt that the threat was gone now that Tommy had gotten married, but considering that Brian had been married for the entire two years that Curt had been involved with him previously, that was hardly any consolation.  Tommy’s wife would be far less understanding about it than Mandy had been, but Arthur couldn’t imagine that stopping either one of them.

            The feeling of Curt’s arms wrapping around his waist from behind distracted Arthur from his depressing thoughts.  “We’ve fixed the shelf, so let’s go to bed now,” he urged, pressing up tightly against Arthur’s backside.  He was already aroused; fast, even for Curt.

            “Will you be givin’ out what you were offerin’ this morning?” Arthur asked, glancing back over his shoulder at Curt’s face.

            A momentary look of disappointment passed over the handsome features.  Of course.  He _really_ didn’t like letting Arthur do anything but receive his passion.  “Sure,” Curt said, putting on a smile that was painfully forced.  “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

            As he let Curt lead him into the bedroom, Arthur wondered if he shouldn’t demur and allow Curt his traditional sexual role.  There was no point in the act if Curt wasn’t going to enjoy it…


	3. Chapter 3

            Arthur started to get out of bed at the usual time.  Curt stirred beside him, then pulled him back down with one arm.  “Go back to sleep,” he muttered.  “Too early.”

            “It’s nearly seven thirty,” Arthur pointed out, glancing over at the clock.

            “Seven thirty is way too fucking early on a holiday,” Curt insisted, pulling Arthur closer.

            Arthur chuckled, and settled back into the bed.  “Forgot about that,” he admitted.  Despite how much everyone and everything had been focussed on the approaching holiday lately, he still hadn’t really been keeping it in mind.  It seemed such a pointless and trivial thing.  And the fact that it was on a _Thursday_ was quite grating:  try telling any American who didn’t work in a shop to do any work on the day after Thanksgiving, and they’d act as though you’d asked them to empty the ocean with a sieve!  Of course, now that Arthur was working on his own schedule, it didn’t matter so much.  Back when he worked at the _Herald_ —and in his few other American jobs before that—Thanksgiving and its aftermath had been quite frustrating.

            There were other reasons to find Thanksgiving an annoying holiday.  For one thing, every store in the entire nation spontaneously put up its Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving, and there would be no escaping badly played Christmas carols for the next month.  Arthur liked Christmas as much as the next fellow—more than the next fellow, considering who was next to him just at present—but a full month of it really felt like overkill.  And he’d never been a particularly big fan of Christmas music, in any event.

            All these thoughts of Christmas music and decorations made Arthur realise that he was going to have to go all out to find a really nice Christmas present for Curt this year.  Curt had proven surprisingly fussy about the notion of turning 40, and had repeatedly insisted that he’d kill anyone who even mentioned the word ‘birthday’ anywhere near him.  So although Arthur had taken him out for a very nice dinner—which he was ready to swear blind was just an ordinary, “I’m so happy to be in love with you” kind of dinner and not anything to do with the fact that it was the anniversary of Curt’s birth—and then catered eagerly to his every sexual whim, he hadn’t been able to give him a present.  To make up for that, he’d have to make sure to go just a wee bit overboard for Christmas.

            It was hard to imagine what Curt might want, though, and Arthur laid there pondering the notion until he drifted back off to sleep.

            When he woke again, it was to the feeling of Curt fondling him quite vigorously.  “You should wait ‘til I wake up first,” Arthur reprimanded him as he opened his eyes.

            Curt laughed.  “I was wondering if I could get you off in your sleep.”

            “That’s not normal, Curt.”

            Of course, Curt just found further hilarity in that, at least until Arthur forcibly stopped his laughter by kissing him.  That was undoubtedly just what Curt wanted, since it led very quickly into particularly energetic sex.

            After they had rested a bit, they took a lazy shower together to wash off the sweat and other bodily fluids.  By that point, it was so near noon that they didn’t even bother with breakfast, and just went in and sat down on the sofa together.

            “Now what?” Arthur asked.  He knew better than to try working on his story on a holiday; Curt would have a bloody fit.

            “The parade might still be going,” Curt said, looking up at the ceiling, “if you wanna see it.”

            “Can’t see any reason I’d want to.”

            Curt shrugged.  “Guess we could have lunch a little early.  Or we could start a movie, or play something.”

            “Mmm…what do you want to do?” Arthur asked.  The part of him that didn’t want to work wanted to go back to sleep.  Neither seemed like a good idea to suggest.

            “Eh, doesn’t really matter much to me.  They always run _Wizard of Oz_ in the afternoon.  You wanna watch it when it comes on?”

            “Why would I?”

            Curt chuckled weakly.  “Yeah, I guess not.  I guess it’s sort of an American thing.  Like, it’s not Thanksgiving unless you watch it.”

            “So you want to watch it?”

            “Nah.  Lots of bad memories.”  Curt sighed sadly.

            All Arthur could do was stroke his hair gently.  Sometimes it seemed like _all_ of Curt’s memories were bad ones.  “Let’s do something to create some _good_ memories, then,” he suggested.

            Curt smiled.  “Yeah.”  He shut his eyes for a few minutes, then opened them again, turning to look at Arthur.  “Let’s go to the beach.”

            “The beach?” Arthur repeated.  “Isn’t it a bit chilly for swimmin’?”

            “Just to take a walk and watch the waves coming in.”

            With a tender smile, Arthur leaned in and gave Curt a kiss.  “You’re a hopeless romantic, my love,” he said.

            “So…is that a yes or a no?”

            “Yes, of course,” Arthur assured him, with another kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

            Being the only two people on the beach for miles around had been beautiful.  They could hold hands and kiss without anyone putting up a stink.  Best Thanksgiving ever.  Especially since they ended up having sex when they got back, and then again that night.  Of course, four times in 24 hours didn’t quite break their record as a couple, and it didn’t come close to Curt’s personal record…though he probably shouldn’t count that, since he’d been using some pretty freaky stimulants at the time.

            Unfortunately, the next day just outright _sucked_.

            Arthur went right back to work as if it was a completely normal day, and he sent Curt out to try and fight his way through the crowds to get the picture frame repaired, and to get something to patch up the wall with.  That was just not happening.  Too many people.  Also, Curt had no fucking clue what to use to fix a wall.  He’d heard that you could patch a hole with toothpaste, but that probably wasn’t intended to be used to fix a gash as long as your forearm.  Plus then the den would smell like mouth.

            Eventually, Curt gave up and went back to the apartment, empty-handed apart from having gotten some food for them to have for dinner.  Naturally, Arthur was annoyed with him, but even he didn’t know what to use to patch drywall, so he had to give in pretty quickly.

            After dinner, while Arthur went back into his office to work, _again_ , Curt decided that maybe he should do some kind of work-like thing, too.  Constantly being shown up by his boyfriend was embarrassing, after all.

            So he decided he’d call his manager and try to pester her into getting him some interviews or something to drum up a little public interest in the new album.  But her phone line was answered by a little boy instead.  “Can I talk to your mom?” Curt asked, hoping he hadn’t dialed the wrong number.

            “No,” the kid said, then hung up.

            “Motherfucker!”  Curt dialed again, and this time a man answered.  “I wanna talk to Alicia,” Curt informed him promptly.

            “I’m sorry, my wife’s out at the moment,” the man replied.  “Should I tell her you called?”

            “Where the fuck is she this late at night?”

            Alicia’s husband sighed.  “Probably still in line at the toy store.  She’s afraid they’ll sell out if she doesn’t get everything on his list right away.”

            “She spoils that fucking kid rotten,” Curt grumbled.

            “Not really.  But he puts up such a fuss if he doesn’t get what he wants.  You know what it’s like.”  There was an awkward pause, then Alicia’s husband cleared his throat.  “No, I suppose you don’t,” he corrected himself, “but you must remember what it was like from when you were a child…”

            “I was lucky if I got jack shit for Christmas,” Curt snarled.  “We were told to just be grateful we had a roof over our heads, and walls between us and the wolves.”  Not that there were really all that many wolves.  But to a kid in the Upper Peninsula, threatening to toss them out into the snow didn’t sound like much of a threat; hypothermia was an alien concept.

            “Ah…”

            “Just tell Alicia I want her to actually do some _work_ for a change.  You know, do something to _promote_ this record, instead of just watching it crash and burn.”

            “None of them have ‘crashed and burned.’  And Alicia works hard to promote your caree—”

            “Hey, you know about houses, right?” Curt suddenly interrupted, having glanced over at the wall with the huge gash in it.

            “Where did that come from?”

            “You do, right?  You work with them, don’t you?”

            “I’m a lawyer, Mr. Wild.  But I do deal primarily with legal cases involving real estate…”

            “So you probably know what I should use to patch a huge hole in drywall, right?” Curt asked.

            “A handyman.”

            “Sounds a bit gory,” Curt laughed.

            “I’ll tell Alicia you called,” her husband said, in very flat tones, before abruptly hanging up the phone.  Some people just couldn’t take a joke!  Then again, if he had a sense of humor, he probably wouldn’t have married Alicia in the first place.

            Alicia didn’t end up calling back until mid-afternoon on Saturday.  The first thing she did, naturally, was to read him the riot act for being rude to her husband.  Even though he hadn’t been.  Then she read him a _second_ riot act for assuming that she wasn’t doing anything to promote his new record.  Curt started to ask if she was on the rag, but she cut him off before he could past “Are you—?”  Probably for the best:  that would have just led to a _third_ lecture if he’d managed to say it.

            “I’m trying to negotiate an appearance for you on a number of talk shows,” she assured him, “but most of them want to wait and see how well the new record is doing first.  I’ve already sent advance copies of the single to every major radio station in the country.  It’s better than the last single, so you should—”

            “What was wrong with the last one?!” Curt demanded.

            “Nothing, as such.  But this one is better—and it fits in better with today’s music.  But do me a favor, will you?”

            “What?” Curt asked suspiciously.

            “Try and behave yourself for once!”

            “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

            Alicia sighed deeply.  “That is exactly what I’m talking about.  You’re forty years old, Curt.  You’re too old to be swearing like a sailor.”

            “I’ll fucking swear as much as I fucking want to, as long as I fucking live.”

            “It alienates absolutely everyone.  Young people today don’t want to hear someone old enough to be their father swearing more than they do.  And the people who were your fans in the ‘70s have gotten on with their lives; they’re responsible adults now, with children of their own.  They don’t want to hear lewd songs about sex anymore.  They want songs about the joys of long-term love, and sweet songs about family life.”

            “Hey, I’ve got songs about long-term love!”

            “And that is the _other_ thing I was talking about,” Alicia said sharply.  “Stop making such a big deal of your relationship with Arthur.  Most people in the world today can’t handle the idea of two men being in love.  It’s off-putting to the average American.”

            “I’m not going to pretend to break up with him.”  Curt had allowed a manager to manipulate his love life once, and he was never gonna do so again.  Of course, Jerry had wanted to play up their romance, not hide it, but even so…

            “I wasn’t saying you should,” Alicia assured him, a surprisingly gentle tone in her voice.  “I just want you to stop writing love songs about him, and stop talking about him when you’re being interviewed.  That’s not so much to ask, is it?”

            Several retorts died on their way from Curt’s lungs to his mouth, producing only the smallest, most strangled of sounds.  “The people interviewing me usually _ask_ about him,” he eventually managed to say.  Though most of the time they tended to make it sound like they were hoping the relationship was over…

            “Yes, I suppose they do,” Alicia admitted.  “But you don’t have to be so eager to talk about him.  Next time they ask you about Arthur, give a brief answer and then change the subject to something that won’t upset anyone.”

            “This is bullshit.”

            “Curt—”

            “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?!”

            “I think I’m your manager,” Alicia snapped, “and telling you what to do is part of my job!  If you’d rather arrange all your tours and publicity yourself, and negotiate with the record label personally, be my guest!”

            There was no sound quite as unpleasant as having someone violently hang up the phone on the other end of the line.  A cracking noise, with a hint of the bell inside the phone, then the loud hiss of static before the ‘off the hook’ noise started blapping away.

            Curt was really pissed off.

            After slamming the phone down, he got a beer and drained it almost immediately.  Then he felt the intense need for a smoke.  Of course, Arthur had convinced him to quit smoking, so there weren’t any cigarettes in the apartment.

            Or were there?

            He spent about three hours hunting for one, looking everywhere, even in Arthur’s office.  That was a mistake.  As soon as he started searching through the closet and looking under the bed and the pillows, Arthur demanded to know what he was doing, and when Curt explained it, expecting to get a lecture…

            Arthur just let out a disappointed sigh, and turned back to his computer.

            Fuck.

            That was _worse_ than being lectured.  Not only did it seem like he felt Curt had let him down, it looked like he had actually _expected_ it to happen.

            Curt needed another drink.

            After draining a second beer and thinking about everything _really_ carefully, Curt knew there wasn’t anything for it.  Swallowing his pride, he picked up the phone and dialed Alicia’s number.  He only got the answering machine.  Shit.  Curt hated leaving messages.  “Look, Alicia, uh…I’m sorry, okay?” he started.  “I went too far.  And I sure as hell don’t wanna try representing myself.  I’ve had a bad couple of days, and I…fuck, I wish I hadn’t quit smoking.  Uh, no, I didn’t say that!  Shit, you don’t let your kid listen to your messages do you?  Is there any way I can erase this from here?”  Realizing that there wasn’t—or even if there was, he’d never figure it out—Curt hastily hung up the phone.

            After Thanksgiving had been so perfect, why were the following days turning out such shit?

            Maybe another beer would help…


	5. Chapter 5

            Looking back on it, Arthur realised that Curt had already been half pissed before dinner.  The number of empty beer cans in the kitchen made it amply clear how that had happened.  Though it wasn’t at all clear _why_ he had decided to drink so many beers in the middle of the afternoon.  Possibly for the same reason he had gone looking for a cigarette.  The very idea that Curt might start smoking again after all the work they had put in getting him off the habit was alarming in and of itself.

            Maybe this was all Arthur’s fault.  If he’d shown more interest, and tried to distract Curt from his craving, maybe he wouldn’t have had so much to drink.  But he had wanted to get the rough draft of his article written as soon as possible, before he could forget any of the details of the conference that he hadn’t mentioned in his notes.  Work was important, after all!

            After dinner, he tried to find a way to cheer Curt up a bit, but most of his suggestions were rejected.  In fact, _all_ of them were.  Even when he offered to service Curt in any way he wanted and at considerable length, it still didn’t improve Curt’s mood, and the offer was rejected out of hand.  It seemed like the only thing Curt wanted to do was to keep drinking.

            Arthur tried not to get too worried about it, until Curt switched to the heavy liquor.  Then it quickly became alarming, and by ten o’clock, Arthur took the bottle away and flatly told Curt that he needed to stop drinking for the night.

            “Yes, your majesty,” Curt replied, with a sarcastic salute.

            “Curt, will you please be _reasonable_ for once?”

            Curt wasn’t ready to entertain that possibility.  “All hail Queen Arthur!”  This time, he added a guffaw-filled bow.

            “You…you bloody…insensitive… _arse_!”  Arthur stood there breathing heavily for a minute or two, hoping Curt would apologise.

            The expression on Curt’s face contorted into one of rage, and memories flooded Arthur’s head, mostly of the story Mandy had told him about Curt hurling microphone stands and other objects about the recording studio.  In a sudden terror, Arthur ran into the bedroom and locked the door behind him.

            He leaned back against the door, one hand still wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle, telling himself that he wasn’t really crying.  No, more than that, lying to himself that none of this was happening, that it was all a bad dream.  It was stupid.  Why would they be fighting?  What were they fighting about?  It didn’t make any sense.  It _had_ to be just a nightmare.

            At the sound of heavy footsteps coming towards the bedroom door, Arthur started back instinctively, moving deeper into the room.  The doorknob rattled.  “What the fuck?”  Curt already sounded really angry…  “Why is the door locked?”  He tried the knob again, and the whole door rattled.  “Why the fuck did you lock the door?!”  Banging on the door, at chest height, and then near the floor.  “Open this fucking door, Arthur!”

            For a moment, everything was still, then the door shook again with a heavy thud, as if Curt had thrown his whole weight against it.  A stream of half-slurred profanity followed.

            Arthur retreated into the WC, shutting and locking its door, too.  He turned on the fan and the water, to drown out the sound of Curt shouting in the hall.  Curling up into a ball on the floor, Arthur drank everything that was left in the bottle in his hand and waited.

            Curt would have to calm down eventually.  He was drunk.  The alcohol would finish taking hold of him, and he’d get tired, and in the morning, Arthur would find him sleeping on the couch, or on the bed in the office.  And then they’d both apologise for overreacting, and everything would be fine.  It would all go back to normal.  Like it had before.

            A crashing sound from somewhere within the flat made Arthur jump.

            What was that?  His computer?  The bookshelf?  The television?  Curt would never hurt his guitar, no matter how drunk he was, so it couldn’t have been that.  There didn’t seem to be too many other possibilities.

            A second crash, louder than the first.

            Arthur was already trembling slightly by the time he heard the front door slam.

            He leapt to his feet, shut off the water and the fan, and just stood there, listening.  Everything was silent.

            Curt hadn’t really left the flat, had he?

            Arthur hurried out of the loo and headed towards the bedroom door.  As he reached to unlock it, several thoughts struck him in rapid succession.

            Just because the door had been opened and closed, it didn’t mean Curt had left.  He might have opened the front door and then slammed it shut to trick Arthur into leaving the bedroom.  If that was the case, he probably intended to do something awful, something he’d regret once he sobered up.

            But maybe he _had_ left.  If he had gone out in that state, who knows what might happen!  Arthur should chase him down and apologise.  He hadn’t done anything wrong, but if he apologised, it would make Curt calm down, wouldn’t it?

            No, no, that was a terrible idea.  If he apologised when he wasn’t in the wrong, then what in the world could he do to make up for it when he _was_ in the wrong?

            Besides, where could Curt go?  This was _his_ flat, after all.  Arthur was just a…a…sexual house-guest?  Pathetic sponger?  Useless hanger-on?

            Drying his tears, Arthur tried to remind himself that this was all going to blow over.  It always did.  Even if Curt wanted to break up, he’d have to come back here to do it, since it was his place.  Then Arthur would have a chance to try and patch things up with him.

            There was no point in fretting about it.

            He’d just lie down, try and get some rest, and in the morning, he’d find Curt on the sofa or in the office, and they’d both apologise, and everything would be right as the rain.

            Arthur was sure that would be the case.

            So why didn’t he feel any better?

            His nerves were just shot, that was all.  Surely.  Checking the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he found some sleeping pills.  That would do the trick.  Just a half dose to relax him.  Then he could get some sleep, and in the morning everything would be fine…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many deep apologies for the unconvincing fight. I'm not good at this sort of thing. :( (If it's any consolation, the first version was even less believable.)


	6. Chapter 6

            It seemed much too bright.  Arthur rolled over, hiding his head under the pillow, but something felt off.  Why hadn’t he collided with Curt as he rolled over?

            Casting aside the pillow, Arthur sat up and looked at the clock.  It was well past nine.  No wonder it was so bright.  But why did his head feel so fuzzy?  He hadn’t gotten drunk last night, had he?

            A moment’s recollection brought it all crashing back down.  No, he hadn’t gotten drunk.  Curt had.  And if his head was fuzzy, it was probably because he’d taken a sleeping pill after drinking a quarter of a bottle of…whatever that had been.  He wasn’t sure, suddenly, but it hardly mattered.

            Getting out of bed, Arthur walked over to the door and listened carefully.

            He couldn’t hear any sounds from the rest of the flat.  Well, Curt _did_ tend to sleep late when he had a hangover…

            Quietly, Arthur unlocked the door and padded barefoot towards the living room.  He’d find Curt, make sure he hadn’t harmed himself, and then start making breakfast.  The smell of bacon and coffee would make Curt wake up in a better mood:  it always did.

            The first thing Arthur noticed was the television.  The picture tube had a sizeable hole in it.  That was one of the crashes he’d heard, then.  But as he reached the sofa, he saw it was empty.  So Curt had to be in the office, then.  Good; his back would probably be killing him if he’d slept on the couch, after all.

            Carefully, Arthur tiptoed towards his office.  There was a squeaky floorboard in that hallway; he didn’t want it to wake Curt, since that would leave him in an extra foul mood.  The door to the office was ajar, and Arthur pushed it open as slowly as he could, lest it make any noise.

            It hadn’t even finished opening when he saw that his computer was no longer on the desk, but on the floor beside it.  The monitor was still in one piece, but…well, that was something he could worry about later.  If he had to replace it, then he had to replace it.  It was, after all, highly replaceable.  Curt wasn’t.

            Once the door was all the way open, Arthur stepped inside the office, but the bed in there was empty, and clearly hadn’t been slept in.

            Trying not to panic, he checked the floor on the far side of the bed, and even checked the bathroom, in case Curt had for some reason decided to sleep in the bathtub.  Both were empty.

            Arthur ran back into the bedroom and put on the first pair of shoes he could find.  If Curt was out there somewhere…

            Best case scenario, he had gone to Alicia’s place, or Mandy’s, and had crashed there for the night.  Second best, he’d been picked up for drunkenness, and was at the local police station.  Worse scenario, he might have gone to Tommy Stone, or one of his many ex-girlfriends.  But even that would be better than if he was just _out there_.

            Arthur grabbed his keys and wallet, but didn’t bother with his coat.  There wasn’t time for coats, not when Curt could be in danger!

            Hastily, he opened the front door, and started to go charging out into the hall, only to trip over something.  Picking himself up from where he had sprawled onto the floor, Arthur looked back at the doorway, and saw that it was Curt himself he had tripped over.

            Relief spreading through him, Arthur moved over to check on Curt.  He reeked of alcohol—and a bit of vomit and urine—but he was breathing steadily.  Felt a bit hot, though, despite that the hallway wasn’t heated.

            Carefully, Arthur dragged Curt’s unconscious form into the flat, removed Curt’s keys from the door lock, then shut the door behind them.

            It took him at least five minutes to devise the best plan to get Curt into the bedroom.  Curt was still as slender as he had always been, so he didn’t really weigh all that much, but Arthur wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder himself; even if he _could_ lift Curt’s weight and carry him that far, he’d probably hurt himself doing it.  If he threw his back out, he’d be in no state to care for his lover.

            Fetching some dirty sheets out of the laundry, Arthur made a bit of a sling, and used it to drag Curt into the bedroom, so he would only have to lift him to get him into the bed.  Thankfully, it went without incident.

            Once in the bedroom, Arthur carefully undressed Curt.  There was no sign of vomit on his clothes, but he had apparently lost control of his bladder at some point in the night.  Hopefully his trousers weren’t permanently stained.  Then again, they were a rather unattractive pair of jeans anyway, and wouldn’t be much of a loss.

            After using a warm washcloth to get the worst of the sweat and urine off of Curt’s body, Arthur hefted him up into the bed and tucked the covers in around him.  Though he had stirred a bit when during the cleaning process, Curt was still asleep, and with his long blond hair ringed out around his head, he almost looked angelic.  Hard to imagine he’d been raging in a drunken stupor only last night…

            Arthur gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then headed into the kitchen.  He’d make something soothing for breakfast.  Soothing and healthy.  Curt’s skin was definitely too hot; he had probably caught a chill, sleeping out in the hall like that.

            Rather than bacon, perhaps some oatmeal—Curt liked oatmeal, though he wouldn’t admit to liking it—with fruit in.  The coffee still seemed like a good idea.  And he’d want some aspirin, as he was sure to have a terrible headache.

            Arthur was still making breakfast when the telephone rang.  He answered it hastily, lest it wake Curt.

            “Can I speak to Curt?” Alicia’s voice asked.

            “He’s…ah…not really…”

            “Don’t tell me he’s still asleep,” she sighed.

            Arthur bit his lip a moment, reluctant to admit what had happened.  But if Curt really was sick, then Alicia would need to know.  Especially since he had a record coming out in a little under a week’s time.  “I’m not sure if he’s got a fever or not,” Arthur admitted, after he finished explaining what had happened.  “He might be fine with a little food in him.”

            “But he hasn’t woken up yet?”

            “No, not yet.”

            Alicia sighed deeply.  “Figures he’d do something this stupid right before releasing a new album.  You just hold tight over there, and I’ll call a doctor to come look at him.  Just in case.”

            “Absolutely,” Arthur agreed.  He only had the most rudimentary idea of medicine, after all.  If it was his own health, he wouldn’t mind chancing it, but Curt’s couldn’t be risked!

            Once the food was ready, Arthur filled a bowl with the oatmeal, and put all the berries they had in another bowl beside it.  He set the two bowls on a tray beside a nice, hot cup of coffee, then picked up the tray and headed into the bedroom.

            The smell of the coffee didn’t waken Curt.  Alarmed, Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, and shook Curt by the shoulder.  A moan was the only result, so he shook harder.  This time, the moan sounded pained, but Curt still seemed to be asleep.

            Giving up for the moment, Arthur headed into the loo to get a bottle of aspirin.  Curt was going to want it, after all.

            He was still looking through the medicine cabinet—he’d made more of a mess of it last night than he remembered—when Arthur heard Curt groaning.  It sounded a bit more wakeful than the moans he had been producing only a minute ago.  “What…?” soon followed the groan.  “How did I…?”

            Arthur hurried back into the bedroom.  Curt winced at the sight of him, and looked away.  He was still cross, then.  Maybe he was going to demand that Arthur leave his flat.  Maybe forever.  But…that didn’t matter.  What mattered was that Curt was safe.  Arthur did his best not to cry as he sat down on the edge of the bed again.  “How are you feeling?” he asked.  He was surprised at how level he had managed to keep his voice.

            “Like shit.”

            “That’ll be the hangover,” Arthur said, trying to produce something that could at least vaguely approximate a chuckle.  “I’ve got aspirin here, and—”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “What?”

            “I…”  Curt turned his face towards Arthur, though his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.  “Last night, I…I went way over the line.  I didn’t—I don’t want to drive _you_ away, too.”  He opened his eyes, showing that his usually beautiful blue-green eyes were bloodshot, and filling with tears.  “I don’t—I can’t—”  He shut his eyes again, his hand moving over to rest on Arthur’s leg, just above the knee.  “At my age, you’d think I’d have learned not to drink when I’m already pissed off…”  He shook his head.  “Just…give me another chance…please…”

            Smiling with relief even as he let go and allowed himself to cry freely, Arthur leaned down and gently kissed Curt’s lips, then pressed his cheek up against his lover’s.  “I was so scared when I—when you weren’t there this morning,” he gushed as best he could around his tears.  “Don’t do that to me again!  I can’t—if you get cross with me again, make _me_ leave, don’t go out by yourself into the world where somethin’ could ‘appen to you!”

            Curt’s arms wrapped around Arthur, the fingers of one hand running through his unbrushed hair, and the other gently stroking his back.  “Baby…I…I’m sorry.”  Arthur could feel tears rolling down from Curt’s eye and colliding with his own cheek.

            “Promise you won’t run off like that again!” Arthur begged.

            “I…I don’t ever want us to fight again, so I won’t promise that,” Curt insisted.  “If I promised, then it’d be like saying we _were_ gonna fight again.”

            Arthur lifted his face to look at Curt’s, then kissed him.  Curt seemed very engaged in the kiss, but Arthur immediately regretted it.  Curt’s mouth tasted like rancid vomit and stale gin, combined with other things that Arthur couldn’t identify, and didn’t want to.  He pulled out of the kiss very quickly.  “Ah…you…uh…”  Arthur shook his head.  “Sorry…tryin’ not to retch…”

            Curt laughed.  “I could use a mint, huh?”

            “Yeah…”

            The telephone rang again, providing a welcome distraction.  Arthur got up and hurried over to answer the phone.  “How is he doing?” Alicia’s voice asked.

            “Better,” Arthur assured her.  “You’re doin’ all right, yeah?” he added, looking at Curt.

            “My head’s killing me,” Curt told him.  “And I’m kinda cold.”

            “He’s hung-over, and probably got a bit of fever,” Arthur told Alicia, “but I think he’ll be okay.”

            “Good, because the doctor doesn’t do house calls on Sunday, it turns out.  He’ll come by first thing tomorrow morning, though.”

            “All right.  I’ll be ready when he gets here.”

            “What’s that about?” Curt asked, as Arthur hung up the phone and headed back over to the bed.  “Who was that?  You called Mandy to ask for advice?”

            “No, Alicia called while you were unconscious,” Arthur explained, as he helped Curt sit up a bit. “She’s called a doctor, but he won’t be able to come until tomorrow.”

            Curt looked impressed.  “I guess she accepted my apology.”

            “What?  Don’t tell me you were fightin’ with her, too?”

            Curt laughed uncomfortably.  “It just sort of…happened…”

            Arthur sighed.  “We’ve got to do something about your temper.”  _Supposedly_ , that had been the point of the video games, to provide Curt with a bit of a safe release.  It didn’t seem to work very well.  “But we can worry about that later,” he added, with a warm smile.  “Right now, we’ve got to get you feelin’ well again.”  He picked up the tray, and set it on Curt’s lap.  “Think you’re up to breakfast?”

            “Yeah, thanks.”  Curt looked at the tray for a moment, then looked back at Arthur’s face.  “Where’s yours?”

            “I was too worried about you to think about eatin’.”  Arthur leaned in and gave Curt a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll fetch mine in here and keep you company, then?”

            Curt nodded, then used his coffee to swallow a couple of aspirin.

            Arthur headed into the kitchen and quickly set about making a pot of tea as he warmed up the oatmeal again.  This promised to be a long day, but at least Curt was safe.  That was the only thing that mattered.  The fact that Curt didn’t want to break up with him was a delightful bonus, but paled by comparison.


	7. Chapter 7

            Curt had still been hung-over when Arthur turned in on Sunday night, and he reported the next morning that his head was still throbbing.  Given that he said he had visited at least two bars after he left the flat, it didn’t surprise Arthur that his hangover had lasted this long—it would probably hang on for at least four or five days.  But he was also looking a bit pale, and sweating, even though it was quite cool in the flat.

            As soon as Curt had eaten his breakfast—though not nearly as much of it as he should have—Arthur helped him to lie back down again, and told him to get some more sleep until the doctor arrived.  Of course, Arthur wasn’t sure when that was going to be, but…all he could do was try to get ready.

            That meant trying to clean up the worst of the mess Curt had made in the flat before he left.  The television was the most obvious concern.  It was a blaring sign that things had gone violently awry.  Arthur contemplated covering it with a sheet, but that would probably look just as bad.

            Instead, he unplugged it, and slowly, laboriously carried it into his office.  At least that way the doctor wouldn’t see it.  Something inside was rolling back and forth as he carried it, in addition to the bits of glass rattling around.  Once the television was safely in the office, Arthur used a pillowcase to protect his hand from the glass, and reached through the hole to remove the object that had broken the screen.

            It was Curt’s Academy Award.  He’d won it for “Chicken Little,” the song he had originally written about that beautiful night in 1974 when they first met.  Shite, he had _really_ been furious with Arthur, hadn’t he?

            For a moment, that knowledge threatened to overpower him, until Arthur set the award down and reminded himself that Curt was no longer angry.  Nothing was wrong.  There was no reason to be upset after it was all over.

            Best to get back to work cleaning up.  Especially since he didn’t know when the doctor was coming.

            Arthur left his office and shut the door behind him.  He bypassed the living room for the kitchen closet, where the cleaning supplies were stashed.  A brush and dustpan quickly got rid of the bits of broken glass all over the floor, or at least the most visible of them.  He’d have to do a quick vacuum later to get the smallest pieces out of the carpeting.  Or maybe let it wait long enough that Curt could do it himself.

            Surveying the room, the only other disorder he saw was the damage to the wall, and the broken picture frame, not to mention the empty spot where the television should have been.  The picture frame was soon hidden in the office along with the telly, but the hole in the wall would be harder to hide.  The only things large enough to cover it that could hang on that nail would be full length mirrors, and who would put one of those next to the sofa?

            Ah, but perhaps…

            Arthur quickly retrieved a framed poster in good condition from the office, and leaned it against the wall in front of the damaged spot.  It hid it beautifully, and by removing the nail from the wall, the deception was complete.

            That still left the empty spot on the shelf at the centre of the room.  Arthur contemplated bringing in a small shelf to set there and fill with books, but who would believe that?  Especially with the VCR and so many video cassettes all around.  Better to say the television was in the shop.  It was nearly the truth, after all.

            Arthur had just decided to stash the Nintendo in the same drawer as its games when the bell rang.  He quickly hid the embarrassing device, then hurried off to answer the door.

            The man on the other side was shortish, balding, and about ten years older than Curt.  Arthur smiled warmly at him as he let the man in.  “Glad to see you, Dr. Tobias,” he said.

            “Mmm, yes, quite.”  As soon as the door was shut behind him, Dr. Tobias gave Arthur a hard look.  “Mrs. Richardson was quite vague on the phone,” he said sternly.  “Tell me the truth.  Is he _really_ sick, or I am being called in to falsify his medical record to hide relapsing into recreational drug use?”

            Arthur’s heart nearly stopped at the idea of Curt returning to drugs.  “God, I hope not!” he exclaimed, without meaning to.  “He just seems to have a bit of a fever,” Arthur added, once he had recovered a bit from the shock.

            “I certainly hope so.”  Dr. Tobias charged into the flat and looked around.  “Hmm?  What happened in here?” he asked, looking at the living room.

            “The telly just needed some repairs,” Arthur assured him.  “Curt’s in the bedroom restin’.  This way.”

            As he led Dr. Tobias towards the bedroom, Arthur found himself a little annoyed, though he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed at himself or at Alicia.  She could have _warned_ him that she had called Dr. Tobias…and yet Arthur probably should have realised that she wouldn’t have called anyone else.  He was, after all, Curt’s primary doctor, and had been since…actually, Arthur wasn’t sure how long he had been Curt’s doctor.  At least since his release from prison, possibly even before he was arrested.  The few times Arthur had taken ill since he moved in with Curt, he, too, had been taken to see Dr. Tobias, so he knew the man relatively well.  Certainly well enough to know that he was given to lecturing his patients, and that he noticed _everything_ , like some finger-wagging Sherlock Holmes.

            As soon as they arrived in the bedroom, Dr. Tobias immediately dismissed Arthur as if he was just the household servant.  Trying not to take it personally, he went into his office and shut the door behind him.

            This was his first opportunity to see just how bad the damage was.  Moving the broken television out of the way, Arthur carefully disconnected the components of his computer, put each one back in its proper place on the desk, and hooked everything back up again.

            Then, the ultimate test:  he tried to turn it on.

            Not one bloody thing happened.

            Lovely.  Just fucking lovely.

            Now what was he supposed to do?

            Thankfully, the box of disks was undamaged, so what he had already gotten written up of his story wasn’t lost, but without a working computer, how was he supposed to get to it?

            Hesitantly, Arthur opened up the case on the CPU.  He had no idea how to tell what the problem was, but he’d seen the interior of computers before.  If it was just a circuit board come loose, maybe he could just slip it back into place…

            But he didn’t see anything out of place inside.  It all looked like the interior of a computer should.  Since Curt was likely to be in Dr. Tobias’ clutches for another half hour, at least, Arthur tried calling a computer repair shop to ask how much it might cost to repair.  Of course, the answer he got was vague, because how could they possibly know the answer when they didn’t know what was wrong?

            He hadn’t decided at all what to do by the time he heard Dr. Tobias walking through the flat again.  Arthur quickly headed back out of the office to make sure the doctor left without prying into anything he shouldn’t.

            “Curt’s all right, isn’t he?” Arthur couldn’t help asking.

            “He’ll be fine,” Dr. Tobias assured him.  “Just a cold, essentially.”  He laughed bitterly.  “Wouldn’t think a Michigan boy _could_ catch a cold.”  He shook his head.  “I’ll have the pharmacy deliver some medicine to get him back on his feet faster.”

            “I appreciate it,” Arthur assured him, though he did wonder why their doctor didn’t trust them to pick up their own prescriptions at the chemist’s like normal people.  Perhaps that had something to do with Curt’s history of drug abuse…

            As soon as he’d locked the door again, Arthur hurried back to the bedroom to check on Curt.  “I must be getting old,” Curt sighed when Arthur came in.  “A fucking cold.  Maybe I’m just getting soft.”

            Arthur slid a hand under the covers to feel the firmness of Curt’s chest.  “You don’t feel soft to me, love.”

            “When I was a kid, I walked fifteen miles through a blizzard,” Curt said, shaking his head.  “Didn’t even get a sniffle.”

            “I highly doubt that.”

            “What, I’ve never told you about this before?”

            Arthur shook his head, and sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling down at Curt.  “Tell me.”

            “I’ve really never told you?”  Curt sounded quite astonished.  “It was when I was about fifteen…”


	8. Chapter 8

            By the time he started seeing a light, Curt was having trouble feeling his toes.  And his feet.  And his face.  He wasn’t even sure he still _had_ a face.  Wouldn’t be much loss if he didn’t.  Who’d ever want to look at it?  Most people treated him like a freak anyway.

            The light seemed to dance around in front of his eyes.  Might have been the cold.  Or the snow.  It was still falling pretty heavily.

            He didn’t know what the light was, but he headed towards it anyway.  The worst that could happen would be if he’d gone in a huge circle.

            As he continued to trudge forwards, the light stopped dancing.  Pretty soon, it was right in front of his eyes.  Looked like it was the window on an actual house, not a trailer.  Good.  He’d been going in a straight line after all.  Maybe he was at the junkyard at the edge of town…?

            Still took him another five, ten minutes to reach the house.  The wind had picked up, and the snow kept blowing right into his face.  That didn’t seem right.  Shouldn’t the wind have been hitting him from behind?

            Who cared?  The important thing was that there was a house there.  He could get out of the snow before it killed him.

            As soon as Curt reached the door to the house, he started pounding on it with his whole fist.  One, two, three, four…by the time the door opened, he’d hit it twenty-seven times.  The man who opened the door didn’t look very remarkable.  Black hair, tan skin, bundled up against the cold.

            “Who are you?” the man asked.  “Where did you come from?  Did you get lost from the highway, boy?”

            Curt shook his head.  “Let me in.  I’m gonna freeze to death.”

            “You can’t have come from town—it’s ten miles to the nearest white town!”

            White town?  “This is the Reservation?”  Curt’s eyes widened.  “I went the wrong way?!”

            The Indian stared at him for a minute longer, then sighed.  “Wherever you came from, better come in before you freeze to death.”

            “That’s what I said to begin with,” Curt grumbled as he headed inside.

            It was a pretty ordinary house, as far as Curt could tell.  He’d never actually been _inside_ a house before, but it looked a lot like the ones he’d seen on television.  Like a trailer, only bigger, and less crappy.  So much for those idiots who thought Indians all lived in wigwams and slept on piles of furs.  Though a pile of furs sounded pretty good right now.

            “Is there a fire?” Curt asked, looking around.  “I’m freezing.”

            “You can warm up over the stove,” the Indian told him, leading the way into his kitchen.

            He had an old-fashioned pot-belly stove.  It was generating a field of warmth that felt absolutely heavenly.  Curt ditched his coat and gloves, and hurried over to stand in front of the stove, holding his hands out towards it to warm them up.

            “Your clothes are soaked through,” the Indian commented, looking at Curt critically.  “I’ll let you borrow some of mine until they dry.”

            As the man disappeared into some other room, Curt glanced over his shoulder at the doorway he’d gone through.  Why was he being so nice?  Other white people wouldn’t care if Curt up and froze to death.  So why would an Indian care?  Maybe he was scared the authorities would be harder on him than on other people if a white kid turned up dead on his doorstep.  Or maybe he expected something from Curt.  Well, fine.  Who cared?  Couldn’t be worse than his fucking brother.  Or his psycho parents.

            The Indian came back with a pair of heavy jeans, a crappy-looking homemade sweater, and a pair of thick socks.  “Here, put these on,” he said, setting everything down in a chair by the table.  “I’ll make you something warm to drink, or you’ll freeze from the inside.”  Then he went to the refrigerator and started rooting around inside it.

            Curt watched him suspiciously for a minute, then shed his wet things and started shoving himself inside the huge, dry garments.  This Indian had to be six feet tall!  The clothes were all gonna fall off the first chance they got.

            “Where did you come from, boy?” the Indian asked.  By now, he was stirring a pot on top of the stove.  “The town?”

            Curt shook his head.  “The trailer park,” he admitted, with some embarrassment.  No matter what the grown-ups claimed they thought, they were worse off than the Indians on the Reservation.  Everyone knew it.

            “Shit,” the Indian said, in a long, slow exhalation.  “That’s more than seven miles from here, if you went straight the whole way.  Why would you walk so far?”

            “I thought I was headed into town.  It’s easy to get turned around in the snow.”

            “So why didn’t you turn back when the blizzard started?”

            Curt laughed.  “I only left _because_ of the blizzard!”

            The Indian stopped stirring, and looked at him through narrowed eyes.  “I think you need to explain yourself, boy,” he said, pointing his wooden spoon at Curt.

            “My name’s _Curt_.”

            “I don’t care what your name is.  Why would you voluntarily walk into a blizzard?  Don’t you know what they’re like around here?”

            Curt laughed, moving back over to the warmth of the stove.  “I was counting on it.  In a storm like that, most people aren’t gonna come back.”

            “Yes, it’s called hypothermia.”

            Curt hadn’t known it was called that, but he nodded just the same.  “So if I walk off into a storm like that, they won’t bother looking for me.  ‘Cause they’ll assume I’m dead.  Save ‘em the trouble of having a funeral.”

            “They’ll still send out search parties when the storm stops.”

            “Yeah, but they won’t find anything, and soon enough they’ll assume the body was eaten by wolves.  Neat and tidy, right?”  He was pretty proud of himself for having come up with that plan all by himself.

            “They won’t think that.  Wolves don’t scavenge the dead.”

            “Well then they’ll think the wolves killed me to eat me!” Curt insisted.

            The Indian sighed deeply, and started stirring the pot on the stove again.  Curt could smell it now.  Some kind of soup or stew.  Spicy and unfamiliar.  Smelled pretty good, whatever it was.  “I suppose they might think it, but they’d be wrong,” the Indian insisted.  “Wolves don’t behave like that.”

            “They’ll still think it.”

            The Indian shrugged.  “They won’t think it for long.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I’m going to take you back as soon as the storm clears up.”

            “You can’t!”

            The Indian looked at him with a bemused smile.  “And why not?”

            “They’ll torture me again!”

            The man’s smile faded.  “Torture?”

            Curt felt like his face was puckering up.  “They called it medicine…”

            The Indian pressed him for an explanation.  Over and over again.  Curt tried not to talk.  He didn’t see any reason to tell him about it.  Just because he’d helped Curt a little bit didn’t mean he had any right to pry into his life.  And it didn’t mean that Curt had to be so grateful as to hang around waiting to be shipped right back off to his parents and their crazy electroshock treatments.  If this Indian was going to take him back in the morning, then Curt would just sneak out again as soon as he fell asleep.  And if that was what was gonna happen, then there was no reason to tell him anything.

            And yet, somehow, Curt ended up explaining everything.

            He blamed it on the delicious smell of that stew.  The Indian wouldn’t give him any unless he talked!  It oughta have been against the Geneva Convention.

            Of course, the Indian wasn’t satisfied with just an explanation of how and why Curt’s parents had him tortured.  So he had to go on and explain the rest.

            Curt had barely finished his course of ‘treatments’ when everyone started getting oh-so-happy because his brother was going to get married.  Curt’s first assumption was that it was to their sister.  Because he was pretty sure they were fucking.  Of course, he was also pretty sure his brother would fuck anything that moved, and probably most things that didn’t.

            But it turned out that his brother’s bride wasn’t their sister.  They didn’t even share very much blood with her.  Some, but not much.  She was a second or third cousin.  Curt wasn’t quite sure what the difference was, but apparently it was enough that the grown-ups didn’t mind.  Not like how they’d minded seeing brothers…

            What pissed Curt off was the fact that this girl was only a year older than he was.  And she was pregnant.  So while he was still getting strapped into the electric table, his brother was off having fun with some little slut!  Even though it was _his_ fault Curt was being tortured!

            The whole idea just churned his stomach, more than anything else.

            At first.  But after a while he started feeling sorry for the girl.  She oughta know what she was getting into…

            The first chance Curt found, he’d gone to talk to her alone.  “So my brother got you knocked up, huh?”

            The girl just turned beet red.  She still had a sense of shame?  That’d change fast!

            “Did he ever make you give him head?” Curt asked.  “That’s what he really likes.”

            “It…it is?”

            Curt nodded, and started telling her all the best ways to suck off her future husband.  All the ways that really got him worked up fast.  The longer he talked, the more the girl stared at him in horror.  So she was beginning to cotton on?  Good.  He started going into even more graphic detail.  Explaining the ways his brother would punish someone who wasn’t doing a good enough job…

            He hadn’t quite finished that before he suddenly heard his brother shouting “You piece of shit!”

            Curt had taken off running as fast as he could.  His brother had chased him for a while, screaming every obscenity Curt had ever heard—and a lot of ones he’d never heard before—and repeatedly threatening to kill him in every possible manner.

            That had been the first time Curt tried to get away for good, but someone in town saw him, and took him back to the trailer park.

            “Why did they take you back?” the Indian asked, when Curt got to that part of the story.  “If you’d been so badly abused…”

            “’Cause they don’t like having trailer park trash like me in town.”  Curt shook his head.  “I’ve got money this time.  Bus fare.  Enough to get me to Detroit.  They won’t know where I came from there.  I can just hide out until I figure out what to do with myself.  How to make a living.”

            “Don’t you have any sane relatives who’ll take you in?”

            Curt laughed.  “You don’t know much about ‘white trash,’ huh?”

            “I know they think my people are beneath them,” the Indian said, with a mirthless chuckle.

            “Well, they’re all crazy.  And they all live in that same fucking trailer park.  And I am _not_ going back.  I’ll do whatever I have to.”

            The Indian sighed, and sat down heavily on the other chair at the table.  “You’ve put me in a terrible position,” he said.

            “Just pretend you never saw me.  I’ll leave in the morning, after the snow lets up, and—”

            “By then, people will be looking for you.  And if they have any idea you headed in this direction…”

            Curt frowned.  “I’ll do anything, if you just won’t turn me in.  I’ve got a lot of experience giving head, and—”

            “Don’t be disgusting!”  The Indian leaped to his feet, backing away.  “Even if I was interested in little boys, I wouldn’t stoop so low as to take advantage of a child in distress.”

            “I’m not a child.  I’m fifteen.”

            “That’s a child in the eyes of the law, and your behavior proves the law to be right.”  The Indian shook his head, and sat down again.  “But your parents’ behavior is far from laudable.  I don’t relish the idea of handing you back to people like that.”

            “So just let me go my way in the morning.”  Curt paused a moment, biting his lip.  “I could tie you up before I go so it looks like I robbed you.”

            “No.”

            “I’ll pay you,” Curt offered.  “I only have bus fare to Detroit right now, but I could mail you more later, when I make some money.”

            “And what would happen to you without your money?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I could pay someone with my body to take me to the nearest city, and then—”

            “You’re much too ready to turn to prostitution, child.  Have more respect for your body!”

            “It’s not prostitution if it’s just once!”

            “Yes, it is.”  The Indian sighed.  “Wait here for now.  I’m going to call someone and ask for advice.”

            “Why?” Curt asked suspiciously.  Was he gonna call the cops and ask them what to do?  They’d hunt Curt down and return him to his parents!  Or maybe they’d lock him up somewhere.  That would at least be better than going back to the trailer park.

            “If I handle this wrong, it will reflect badly on my people,” the Indian informed him.  Then, without another word, he got up and headed into a back room.  As Curt listened, he started a phone call.  “I’m sorry to call so late,” he said, “but I’ve got a bit of a situation here.  No, it’s nothing so simple.”

            As the Indian began to give a hasty summary of the full story, Curt realized that it was a lost cause.  The Indians would turn him in to the cops, and the cops would turn him over to his parents, and then his parents would take him back to that crackpot, or lock him up in an asylum, or…shit.

            As quick as he could, Curt got out of the Indian’s oversize clothes, and struggled back into his own grimy, damp clothes.  Better to risk dying of exposure than to go back to the trailer park.

            The Indian was still arguing on the phone when Curt snuck back out the front door of the house.  The blizzard seemed to be letting up a bit.  And at least Curt knew where he was now.  He’d turned the wrong way, but if this was the Reservation, then he knew how to get to the highway.

            Maybe if he got to the highway, he could hitch a lift with someone, and get to the city without blowing his money on bus fare…


	9. Chapter 9

            Curt’s quite frankly improbable story was soon interrupted by a coughing fit.  Arthur eased him back down onto his back, and told him to get some more rest.  Curt didn’t even resist the order:  proof that he was quite ill indeed.

            Arthur headed out into the rest of the flat to keep from interfering with Curt’s sleep, but that left him uncertain what he should be doing.  He couldn’t work without his computer, so what was he to do now?  He spent at least twenty minutes pacing the living room, trying desperately to decide, and hadn’t come to anything even approaching a decision by the time the phone rang.

            “Dr. Tobias tells me Curt’s all right,” Alicia said as soon as Arthur picked up, “but how is he really?”

            Arthur sighed.  “Hard to tell with Curt.  He doesn’t like admittin’ that something’s wrong until it’s gone too far to fix.”  Which, of course, made his eagerness to apologise strange, and slightly alarming.  “I don’t think he’ll be up to anything too strenuous any time soon, though.  Try not to schedule him any appearances until the middle of next week at the earliest,” he suggested.

            Alicia laughed in a particularly mocking way that jarred against Arthur’s nerves.  “He’ll be taking whatever appearances he’s offered, or he won’t be offered any more of them,” she said.  “That is how this business works, particularly when your career isn’t doing well.  That being said, we obviously want him back on his feet as soon as possible.  How well stocked is your kitchen?”

            “The kitchen?  Tolerably well for normal purposes,” Arthur replied, aware that it wasn’t much of an answer.

            “Hmmm.”  There was a pause, and the distant sound of drumming fingernails.  “I don’t know if I can trust your estimation,” she announced as the drumming stopped.  “You’re no less flighty than Curt is.”

            “Sorry, what?”  Did she really just call Arthur ‘flighty’?

            “I’m going to bring over some groceries.  So don’t go anywhere.”  Without another word, Alicia hung up the phone, leaving Arthur grimacing.

            Arthur headed back into the bedroom, and saw that Curt was now sleeping soundly.  Not wanting to wake him, but not wanting to be far away if any problems should arise, Arthur quickly fetched his glasses out of the office, then settled down on the chair in the bedroom with a book.  It wasn’t getting his article written, but…

            He was still sitting there reading when he heard the door to the flat open.  It irritated Arthur to no end that Alicia still had a key to their flat.  It had made sense when Curt lived alone, but now…now it felt like an invitation to any number of abuses.

            Alicia was unpacking groceries when Arthur entered the kitchen.  She barely even acknowledged his existence.  That, of course, was typical of her.  The food seemed mostly to be cans of chicken noodle soup, bottles of juice, and fresh fruit.

            “Are you busy at all?” Arthur asked.

            “If you have time for stupid jokes, you have time to help me with the groceries,” Alicia snapped.

            Arthur sighed deeply, even as he began shifting fruit into the refrigerator.  “I meant, are you in a rush to go do something else after this.”

            “Oh, no, not particularly.  I need to return one of the toys I bought over the weekend, but I can do that any time this week.  Why?  What did you expect me to be doing?”

            “I was hopin’ maybe you could stay for a little while in case Curt needs anything, so I could run a few little errands.  Shouldn’t take an hour.”

            Alicia stared at him suspiciously, then sighed.  “I suppose I’d better.  I can’t have him here alone while he’s sick.”

            “I wouldn’t go if there was no one to stay with him,” Arthur assured her.  From the way Alicia sniffed, she didn’t believe him at all.  But the important thing was that she was willing to be there in case Curt woke up while Arthur was gone.

            Arthur called for a cab, and as soon as it arrived, he took the CPU of his computer and had the cabbie drive him to the repair shop.  They looked at the computer and said it looked like a few wires had jolted loose:  a quick solder and it’d be good as new.  Since they promised it would be done by the next day, Arthur left it with them, then headed to the library.

            In his story, Curt had gone from pride to sorrow in talking about the fact that his ruse had worked, and his parents had really believed he was dead:  “They had a funeral and everything.  I’ve read my own obituary.  Pretty funny stuff.  I used to keep a copy in my wallet, but I lost it at some point.  Wish I could show it to you…”  It sounded like he really missed having it—perhaps it was the only sense he could have that his family really had, in their own perverse way, loved him—so Arthur wanted to find another copy for him.  Of course, the New York City Public Library didn’t keep copies—even on microfiche—of small town newspapers from upper Michigan, but Arthur was able to look up the telephone number of the newspaper in question.

            After the library, he had only one more task to accomplish:  he went to an electronics store and bought a new television.  There was no point in trying to repair the old one, given the enormous hole in the picture tube, and there _was_ a sale on, after all.  He had to pay a bit extra to have it delivered, but it wasn’t as though he could even lift the thing, let alone take it home on the subway with him!

            All told, Arthur had been gone about an hour and a half by the time he returned to the flat.  Alicia gave him a lecture on punctuality before she left.  Why on earth did Curt put up with her?  She was like the worst bits of everyone’s nagging mum combined.

            Fortunately, Curt was still asleep.  His forehead was glistening with sweat, so Arthur got a cool washcloth and gently mopped his lover’s brow before sitting down to resume reading.  He hadn’t gotten through even one chapter before Curt woke with a coughing fit.

            When he went to the kitchen to fetch some juice, Arthur noticed that the chemist’s had delivered Curt’s medicine while he was gone, so he brought that into the bedroom as well.  After he’d taken his medicine and had a bit of the juice, Curt let out a low groan.  “I hate being fucking sick,” he muttered.  His voice sounded a bit raspy.

            “Everyone does,” Arthur agreed, stroking his hair.  “But you’ll get better soon.  You’re a strong one.”

            “You’re not going to go anywhere, right?” Curt asked, an unnatural vulnerability on his face.  Made him look like a child.  Also made Arthur feel rather guilty about having gone out to run errands.  Had Curt woken up during that time after all?

            Arthur took his hand and squeezed it.  “I’ll be right here with you, love.  I promise.”

            “What time is it?” Curt asked, after a few minutes’ silence.

            Arthur glanced over at the clock, then smiled.  “Oh, it’s after four,” he said.  “Hold on.”

            Quickly, he turned on the radio, and tuned it to the correct station.  It was the middle of a song.  Sounded like U2.  After the song, a station identification commercial played, and then Mandy’s voice came bouncing out of the speakers.  “Guess what I have here, darlings?”  It was such a natural fit for Mandy to become a radio personality that, looking back on it, Arthur felt surprised it hadn’t happened years sooner.  She had so many fascinating inside stories to tell about the music industry, and her wit was able to sparkle beautifully over the air.  Her programme tended to be about half talking, and half music, a blend that worked well for her style.  “You’ll never guess!” Mandy went on.  “It’s the newest single from my dear friend Curt Wild.  Oh, I know what you’re thinking, my dears:  ‘How can he be your friend?  He ruined your marriage!’  Well, let me tell you, my marriage ruined itself.  Curt was just there for the party.”  Mandy laughed at her own joke—normally a poor idea, but for her it worked—then went on.  “I must say, I’ve had a listen to both sides of the single already, and they’re quite terrific.  Best he’s released in years.  Hear for yourselves.”

            The Side A song of the single started playing.  Arthur smiled proudly, holding Curt’s hand as he listened.  It had much of the same magic of Curt’s music from the early ‘70s, but the guitar riffs also showed the influence of some of the better modern artists.

            Once the song was over, Mandy started talking again.  “If the rest of the songs are as good as these two,” she said, “then I’m sure Curt will finally get that Grammy he’s always deserved.  The record comes out this Friday, darlings, so make sure you go buy a copy right away.”  Then she started introducing the next song, so Arthur turned the volume down again, leaning in to give Curt a passionate kiss.

            “That should help, don’t you think?” he said.

            Curt sighed.  “I’m not even sure I care anymore.”  He shook his head.  “Maybe it’s the cold talking.  I just feel so fucking tired.”

            “That’s definitely just the cold,” Arthur laughed.  “You’re not capable of feeling tired.”  And he had the bags under his eyes to prove it.

            Curt smiled, tightening his grip on Arthur’s hand.  “Maybe I’ve just been trying to show off for my pretty young boyfriend,” he suggested.

            “If you want me to be ‘pretty,’ I’d suggest you stop wanting so many late nights,” Arthur told him.  “Doesn’t do my face any favours, not having enough sleep.”

            “I think you still look perfect.”

            “Maybe the cold’s affected your eyesight.”

            “If I had the strength right now, I’d prove it,” Curt promised, with that irresistible, lecherous smile.

            “All the more reason for you to get your strength back as quickly as you can,” Arthur replied, kissing him, “for both our sakes.”

            They kissed again, but just as it was really heating up, Curt was suddenly overtaken by another coughing fit.  Arthur handed him the rest of his juice, and watched with concern until Curt managed to get the coughing under control.

            “You need to lie down and rest,” Arthur told him sternly.  “I’ll just be over here, researchin’ my article.”

            “What do you need to research it for?” Curt replied, looking hurt.  “I thought you were writing a story about that fucking conference you went to.”

            “I am, but I need the reference materials to help me understand the science,” Arthur assured him.  “It’s necessary.”

            Curt sighed, and settled down into the bed.  “All right,” he grumbled.  “But sit in bed, not on the chair.”

            Arthur repressed a weary sigh.  He always got sleepy when he tried to read in bed, and a book on meteorology was hardly interesting reading material in the first place.  But how could he say ‘no’ to Curt when he was ill?

            Fetching his glasses and his book, Arthur turned the radio back up before slipping out of his shoes and climbing into his side of the bed.  Mandy was talking again, and from the subject matter, Arthur suspected they had talked over a Tommy Stone song.  All for the better.

            “It’s an odd thing, after all, being a bridesmaid at your ex-husband’s wedding.  Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea why she asked me.”  Mandy laughed.  “You know, I remember the day Brian and I first met her.  I don’t think he gave her a second glance.  But I thought she was a dear little creature.  A bit mousy, but it’s fun to tease them when they’re like that.  I wouldn’t have minded having a little fling with her back then, when she was all cutely timid…”

            “I’m not sure if that’s a terrifying idea, or a really hot one,” Curt commented.

            Arthur cleared his throat.  “It’s givin’ me mixed feelings, too,” he agreed.

            Fortunately, the radio soon gave over to music, letting Arthur concentrate on his reading, and allowing Curt to get some sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

            The new telly arrived while Arthur was making the soup for Curt’s lunch.  The delivery men even agreed to haul away the old broken one, though he had to give them each a fiver first.  Given the soup simmering on the stove, Arthur didn’t want to take the time to hook it up to anything right away.  It wouldn’t be likely to see any use until Curt was better anyway.

            Arthur brought two bowls of soup into the bedroom on a tray, setting it down on the tray stand for Curt, then moving his own bowl onto the bedside table, pulling up a chair so he could sit at it to eat.  It wasn’t a very satisfying meal, to Arthur’s tastes, but if it was all Curt was having, he couldn’t well have more in front of him.  He might nip off to the kitchen for something more next time Curt dozed off, though…

            While Arthur was taking the empty bowls back to the kitchen, the phone rang.  It was the repair shop, to tell him that his computer was ready.  For a fee, they were willing to deliver it to the flat, thankfully.  So Arthur was in quite the good mood as he returned to the bedroom with some more juice for Curt.

            Once he’d helped Curt take his next dose of medicine, Arthur set the glass down on the bedside table.  “Do you need anything else?” he asked.  Curt shook his head, so Arthur helped him lie back down again.

            “I’m really sorry you’re having to do all this for me,” Curt sighed.

            “Curt, you don’t need to apologise for—”

            “Of course I do!  I…none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been acting like such an asshole.”  Curt frowned.  “But I’m gonna make it up to you, I promise!  Once I’m better, I’ll do something to make up for it.  Like a blowjob or two.”

            Arthur chuckled.  “It’ll take a lot more than a few blowjobs to make up for all this.  But I suppose that’s a good place to start.”

            Curt laughed.  “Have I ever told you you’re sexy when you stand up for yourself?”

            “I’ll make sure to remind you that you said that next time it happens,” Arthur said, running his fingers through Curt’s hair.  “Just in case you forget.”

            “I won’t forget,” Curt promised, taking hold of Arthur’s hand.

            “I’m glad to hear it.  Now get some rest, love.”  Arthur gave him a brief kiss before moving around to his own side of the bed to do more reading.

            He paused before putting on his glasses, looking at the frames.  They were subtle, with thin gold rims.  Curt had insisted on picking out the frames the last time Arthur needed new glasses, because his previous pair were ‘fucking ugly’ and Curt didn’t like looking at them, particularly not looking at them on Arthur’s face.  Their relationship had by then moved far enough that Arthur didn’t try to talk him out of it for the expense, nor did he blush at the idea that his lover wanted to have some measure of control over how he looked.  He had just quietly acquiesced, glad that such a simple thing could bring Curt some pleasure, no matter how small.  Now that he was looking at it from a bit of distance in time, Arthur was just glad that Curt hadn’t picked out some glittery, rhinestone-studded pair, like Arthur might have worn back in the early ‘70s, had needed glasses then.  It would be mortifying to be seen dressed that way now, despite how much Arthur treasured his memories of those days.

            Back in the first six months or so of their relationship, Curt probably _would_ have tried to pick him out something wild and over-the-top for his new glasses.  The first few times they had gone clothes shopping together, Curt kept trying to get him to buy brightly coloured shirts that Arthur couldn’t imagine wearing now, even though he would have gladly worn them as a teenager.  He had also displayed a fixation on getting Arthur into leather trousers and jeans a size too small, but that still hadn’t changed, even after all these years.  Well, he wouldn’t want Curt to change _too_ much, so perhaps it was good that he hadn’t given up on all his aspirations regarding Arthur’s wardrobe.

            Shaking his head to clear away such an absurd train of thought, Arthur slipped on his glasses, and did his best to focus on his reading.  He needed to get as much as possible finished of his research before the computer came back from the shop, after all.  He could think about Curt later.

            He _always_ thought about Curt, after all.

 

***

 

            By Wednesday morning, Curt’s fever seemed to be entirely gone, and he was beginning to get antsy, wanting to be out of bed at any cost.  However, according to Dr. Tobias’ instructions, this was a dangerous phase in which the patient, thinking himself cured, would stupidly cause his own relapse.  So Arthur was determined to keep Curt in bed for at least the rest of the day, no matter what excuses Curt might use to try to get up.  Fortunately, when it was returned yesterday afternoon, Arthur had shown enough foresight to set up his computer in the bedroom instead of in the office, so Curt couldn’t sneak out of bed while Arthur was out of the room working.  Didn’t stop him trying to find an excuse to leave bed, but at least it kept him from succeeding.

            However, there was another problem bothering Arthur.  As he had gotten dressed this morning, he had put on his last clean pair of pants.  If he was like Curt and could easily go without, that wouldn’t be an issue, but Arthur had never been comfortable having nothing on under his trousers.  Even back in his early years in London, when he had regularly gone without, he had never felt terribly comfortable that way.

            So laundry was going to have to be done.  But it was Curt’s turn to do the washing.  Normally, Curt shirked the chore the way a child might, but given his current state, he might actually embrace it, just as an excuse to be out of bed.  That, somehow, seemed even worse than not having it get done.

            Therefore, as soon as Curt drifted off to sleep mid-morning, Arthur saved his work on his article, gathered the dirty clothes out of the bin, as well as a few articles that had been dumped on the floor, and headed in to set the laundry going.  One of the many ways that Curt’s flat was so much nicer than any of the ones Arthur had ever rented was the fact that it had small laundry room off the kitchen.

            As he was dumping the dirty clothes into the washing machine, Arthur casually checked the pockets of all the trousers, just in case anything had been left behind in them.  It was an old habit he’d picked up back in London—among the other ways he had ended up taking more care of the Flaming Creatures than they had of him, he had done their washing, and Billy had had a terrible tendency to leave paper money in his pockets—but it had its uses.  One time he had found Curt’s car keys in the pockets of a pair of his trousers, and another time a pack of chewing gum, and on a number of occasions—most of them _after_ he had supposedly quit smoking—a packet of cigarettes.

            There was quite a bit in the pockets of the soiled jeans Curt had been wearing when he went out drinking by himself in that fit of rage.  His wallet was still in his back pocket, unsurprisingly emptied of cash, and several books of matches—each from a different bar—were in one of the front pockets.  In the other front pocket was a piece of folded paper.

            While he started the washing machine going, Arthur wondered if he should open the paper and see what—if anything—was written on it.  It might be nothing, just an old receipt.  Or it might be some note Curt had written to himself earlier in the day, before they had their spat.  Or it could have been some girl’s telephone number.  It was hard to imagine that girls hadn’t been trying to chat him up while he was out drinking.

            If that was the case, the note would be private, and Arthur shouldn’t look at it.  He should hand it over to Curt, and trust him with its contents, whatever they were.

            But Curt was, after all, ill.  He was recovering, of course, but he was in a delicate state.  He shouldn’t be upset by seeing some mysterious note that would remind him of their quarrel.

            Convincing himself that it was the best course of action, Arthur opened the note to have a look at it, planning to pitch it away if it was just some girl’s number.

            There was, indeed, a telephone number, but if it belonged to a girl, she wasn’t simply hoping for a position in Curt’s bed.  The only thing written on the slip of paper other than the phone number were the words “Call about the boy.”  The writing was rough, the letters heavy and angular; everything about the shape of the letters was stereotypically masculine, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was actually written by a man.  It was decidedly not Curt’s handwriting, in any event.

            What worried Arthur was the meaning of the words, more than who had written them.  His first thought—crazy though it was—was that someone had seen the two of them on that London rooftop back in 1974, and now they wanted to blackmail Curt for what had been, technically, statutory rape.  But no one would—or even could—prosecute for something like that more than ten years later, surely.

            His second fear was that maybe someone was trying to set Curt up with a new boyfriend.  Someone younger and more attractive than Arthur.  Someone who would still be pliable, like Arthur once was.  If this note was from someone who had such a boy available for Curt’s romantic use…if that was the case, then Arthur wanted to burn the note and pretend he had never seen it!

            He was still fretting over what to do about the note by the time the laundry was done in the washer.  When he realised how long he had spent worrying about it, Arthur tucked the note in his own pocket, put the laundry in the drier, and headed into the bedroom.

            He had to trust Curt.  Had to give him the benefit of the doubt.  If he didn’t, then how could he continue to claim to be in love?

            Curt was still napping, so Arthur tried to work on his story for a while, but he couldn't concentrate on it at all.  Still, he refused to wake Curt over the note, no matter what it was.

            But then a thought occurred to him.  Why bother Curt with it at all?  He had the phone number.  He could call and find out what it was, without upsetting his lover in case it was something unpleasant.

            Pleased with the plan, Arthur headed into the living room to make the call.  Soon after he finished dialling, the phone was answered.  The man on the other end had a thick German accent, and spoke slowly, even just in saying “Hello?”

            “Um, hi, I…ah…I found this number with a message sayin’ to call about a boy…”

            “You’re not Curt Wild,” the man on the other end said, then hung up the phone.

            What the bloody hell…?

            There wasn’t any choice.  That man was behaving suspiciously.  Arthur was just going to have to disturb Curt’s mental state with the note and its mysterious contents.

            Curt was still asleep, so Arthur sat down on the side of the bed and waited for him to wake up.  After that phone call, he certainly wasn’t going to get any work done.  Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to anyway.  When Curt finally did wake up, he smiled happily at Arthur.  “You know, I think I’m feeling up to some light sex,” he suggested, running one hand up Arthur’s thigh.

            “Not right now,” Arthur sighed.  “I found this in the pocket of your jeans,” he said, handing Curt the note.

            Curt stared at it for several minutes.  “I have no idea what this is,” he eventually announced.  “I don’t remember it.  Which pair of jeans was it?”

            “The ones you were wearin’ when you…when you went out…and ended up sleepin’ in the hall…”

            “Fuck.”  Curt sighed.  “As drunk as I got…”  He shook his head.  “Well, just call the number and see what they want.”

            “I tried,” Arthur told him.  “The man on the other end would only talk to you.”

            Curt frowned, and sat up the rest of the way.  “Gimme the phone.”

            Despite his inclination to refuse to allow Curt to place such unnecessary stress on himself, Arthur did as he was asked, bringing the phone over to the bed so Curt could make the call.  He needed to know what was going on, too.

            Curt dialled the number, his face all too sombre.  “This is Curt Wild,” he soon said into the receiver.  “Who the hell are you?”  After a brief pause, Curt shook his head.  “Look, I don’t remember anything about meeting you or getting that note, so how about you just explain yourself?”  Curt sat there listening, his serious expression turning into a grimace, and then a bitter scowl.  “Really?” he finally asked.  “Are you sure about that?”  If it was possible, his scowl actually became more intense the longer he listened.  “And there’s no chance of a mistake?”  The pause was much shorter this time.  “All right, I’ll come by this afternoon.  Gimme your address,” he added, gesturing towards a pen.

            Arthur quickly fetched the pen off the table, and handed it to Curt, who used it to write down an address before he hung up the phone.

            “Well?” Arthur asked, nearly breathless with curiosity.  “Who was ‘e?  What’d ‘e say?”

            Curt snickered slightly.  “Man, this is really agitating you, huh?”

            “Curt, what’s goin’ on?!”

            Curt sighed, and shook his head.  “Search me.  But he says I have a son.”


	11. Chapter 11

            Arthur wasn’t sure what to think as he rode in the passenger’s seat of Curt’s GTO.  Surely the man was lying when he said that Curt’s son was staying in his flat.  How could Curt have a son?  Arthur knew Curt’s romantic history quite well, and there hadn’t been any serious relationships with women at all.  A lot of one night stands, and brief affairs that lasted only a few months, but nothing truly serious.  And surely a girl wouldn’t keep the baby of someone she had only had a brief fling with.  Would she?

            The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he didn’t actually know women very well.  His own romantic encounters with them had been few and brief, and none of his female friends had really been close enough that they would have discussed something like this with him.  So he really didn’t know what to think.

            And he was none too pleased that Curt was not only out of bed, but driving his high-powered car.  What choice was there, though?  If there really was a child, they didn’t want to go meet him on the subway, since the man who had him wanted Curt to take charge of the child.  And Arthur couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a license.  Didn’t even know _how_ to drive, not really.

            To make matters worse, they were driving into a particularly seedy part of town.  When Curt suddenly pulled over and parked the car, Arthur wanted to beg him to check the address, because surely they were in the wrong neighbourhood.

            “You wait here,” Curt said.  “I’ll go inside.”

            “I’m comin’ with you!” Arthur insisted.

            “In a neighbourhood like this?  That’s a good way to come back and not have a car anymore,” Curt countered.

            “I don’t care.  I don’t want you goin’ in there alone.”

            “Arthur, just wait in the fucking car!”

            The shouted command made Arthur wince, and he found himself agreeing, even though he knew it was a mistake to let Curt go inside alone.  Who could know what kind of twisted madman might live in a place like that?

            The longer that Arthur sat alone in the car, the more uneasy he became.  A number of young men passed by on the street, slowing down in their path to stare at the car.  Maybe it was just because it was a bit of an old car—not too many pristine 1971 GTOs on the streets of New York in 1987, after all—or maybe because it was now a rather pricey car, and this was the type of neighbourhood where the locals only drove junkers, if they drove anything at all.  But maybe they had the kinds of ambitions towards the car that Curt had alluded to.  Arthur had no way of being sure either way.

            After a few minutes, Arthur needed to stretch his legs.  He got out of the car, paced back and forth beside it for a brief while, then sighed, and leaned back against the side of the car.  The young men who had been standing nearby looked at him uncertainly, then pushed off, making Arthur chuckle to himself.  He sometimes forgot that height alone could make him seem intimidating.  A small favour indeed, considering nothing else about him was the slightest bit likely to frighten off the criminal element.  He was always being told—first and foremost by his own lover—that his face was downright girlish, and he knew all too well that he wasn’t terribly muscular, that most Americans viewed Brits as weak intellectuals, and of course that most men would look at Arthur’s love life and dismiss him as a faggot, weak and submissive and easily beaten up.

            But for the moment, his height was enough to keep any locals with criminal ambitions away from the car.  That was no consolation to Arthur, though, as he began to be even more worried about Curt.  Curt, after all, was not so tall as Arthur—his height was decidedly average—and he wasn’t particularly well muscled, either.  His long hair might fool people into thinking he was an aging hippie, an easy target.  And, worst of all, Curt was still recovering from his cold!  If anyone inside the building _did_ attack him, he might not be able to defend himself!

            Arthur hadn’t been leaning against the car for five minutes when Curt finally emerged again.  He was followed out by a young boy with a bookbag, perhaps six or seven years old.  The boy had pale blond hair—about the colour Curt’s had been bleached to back in 1974 when they had first met—and a big grin on his face as he tagged along after Curt, clutching one of his hands.  The closer they got to the car, the more Arthur thought he could see Curt in the boy’s face.  The shape of the eyes, the shape of the jaw…the boy’s overall appearance absolutely suggested that he really was Curt’s son.

            When the two of them reached the car, Curt let go of the boy’s hand, and opened the passenger door as Arthur moved out of the way.  He leaned in and folded the front seat to allow access to the back seat.  “Get in the back seat, Mick,” he said, looking at the boy.  “And fasten your seat belt!” he added, as the boy obeyed.

            “Mick?” Arthur repeated.

            “His mom’s a big Jagger fan,” Curt sighed, shutting the car door again.

            “Where _is_ his mum?” Arthur asked.

            “We’re on our way to see her,” Curt told him, but he wouldn’t say anything more, just moved around to get into the car himself.

            All Arthur could do was hurry to get back in the car and hope everything was going to be all right.


	12. Chapter 12

            Back in the ‘70s, one of the reasons he usually gave for preferring men to women was that he didn’t need to use condoms with them.  Since Curt hadn’t wanted to end up in a shotgun wedding like his asshole brother—or to leave a string of bastards behind him like practically every other man he knew—he had always taken precautions with girls.  When he was sober.

            But now he was faced with the living, breathing proof that he hadn’t been so careful when he was fucked up.

            Candi had been the first girl Curt had ever met who wanted to spell her name with an ‘i’ at the end instead of a ‘y’ like most people, and in his heroin-induced haze, that had seemed attractive to him.  Or maybe he just hadn’t cared who he was fucking.  Looking back on it, he couldn’t see anything about the woman that would have gotten his attention.  She was average in every way, including her appearance.  No, there was one way she _wasn’t_ average:  she had known where and how to get heroin in bulk, and cheaply.  Maybe _that_ had been the attraction.

            Apparently, she _still_ knew how to get lots and lots of heroin.  That was what the old man said she was in lock-up for, anyway.  Whoever arrested her hadn’t known—or cared—that she was the sole support of her seven year old son.

            As Curt pulled the car in to park at the police station where Candi was being held, Arthur let out a noise of horror.  In any other situation, Curt would have called it cute.  Right now, it was just grating.

            “His mum can’t be _here_ ,” Arthur whispered quietly.

            “She is,” Curt assured him.  “All right, we’re getting out,” he added, turning to look at Mick.  The boy looked a lot like Curt’s cousin Alex, before she grew her hair out.  Gave him the creeps, considering what had happened to poor Alex…

            “I’m gonna see Mom?” Mick asked eagerly.

            “Maybe.”  Curt shrugged.  “I don’t know how this works.”  In his only experiences regarding being held at a police station, _he_ was the one being locked up.  How visiting a prisoner worked wasn’t really something he knew about:  no one had even _wanted_ to visit him.

            They all three went into the police station together, getting a lot of funny looks from everyone inside.  Well, two men and a little boy probably _were_ an odd sight in this kind of neighborhood.  Curt told Arthur and Mick to sit down in the waiting area, then went to talk to the desk sergeant.  “I’m here to see Candi Williams,” he said.

            “You her lawyer?” the sergeant asked, sounding decidedly doubtful.  “Or family?”

            “I’m…”  Curt glanced over his shoulder at Mick, who was talking animatedly to a rather uncomfortable-looking Arthur.  “I’m the father of her child,” he said, when he looked back at the sergeant.  “And after I talk to her, I’m gonna get her a lawyer,” he added.

            The sergeant rubbed his chin a minute, staring at Curt.  “Haven’t I seen you before?” he finally asked, his voice decidedly suspicious.

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah, you’ve probably seen my picture before.  Ever go into a record store?  I’ve only got ten or so albums.”

            “We’ll see.  What’s your name?” the sergeant asked, his fingers poised above a computer keyboard.

            “Curt Wild.”

            The suspicion on the sergeant’s face deflated instantly.  “Oh.”  He cleared his throat.  “Yes.  Well, I knew I’d seen your face somewhere…”

            “Look, can I see her or not?”

            “Yes, yes, just go have a seat.  Someone will come get you once she’s ready to be seen.”

            Curt walked over and took the seat on Mick’s other side.  Mick immediately stopped talking and turned to gaze up at him with a big smile.  Just what had Candi told the kid about him?  He seemed entirely too happy to meet Curt.

            “What’s goin’ on?” Arthur asked, sounding worried.

            “He said they’re getting her ready for me to see her,” Curt explained.  Didn’t fit what he’d come to expect of being held to await trial, but maybe that was just television and movies dicking around and getting things wrong?  In the movies, people just stayed in the holding cells, and their visitors came in to see them there, with all the other prisoners just listening in.

            “I bet Mom’s real lonely in there,” Mick said, frowning sadly.  “Tell her I’m not lonely!  I’ve been staying with Grampa Fred and Gramma Ursula!  Um, but I do miss Mom.  Tell her I miss her, but I’m not lonely!  Okay?”

            “Yeah, I’ll tell her that,” Curt assured him.  It felt like the natural thing to do would be to tousle his hair, but Curt was frankly a little afraid to touch the kid.  Especially in public.  Too many people didn’t see any difference between homosexuality and pedophilia, and that kind of person didn’t know or care that bisexuality even existed.  Last thing he wanted to do was encourage that kind of misperception.  Especially somewhere where he was surrounded by cops.  Cops in a bad area tended to assume that vaguely familiar faces were wanted fugitives; if he did anything to make them more suspicious than they already were, they might start shooting first and asking questions later.

            Maybe Curt should have let his hair down and taken his shirt off.  Then they might have realized who he was without being told.

            While he was trying not to laugh at that thought, a young cop came over to him.  “Mr. Wild?” he asked, his voice shaking.  Must have been a real rookie if he was scared in this situation.  “She’s ready to see you now.”

            “I wanna see Mom, too!” Mick exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

            “No, you wait here, Mick,” Curt said.  “Your mom and I have to discuss grown-up things.”

            Mick let out an exaggerated sigh, and sat down again.  “Okay, Daddy,” he said glumly.  Ordinarily, Curt would _not_ like the idea of being addressed as a father—even though he apparently was one—but in this case, it was probably the only thing stopping this rookie cop from arresting him for abduction.

            The young cop led Curt through a back hall of the police station to what was clearly an interrogation room.  Beyond the one-way mirror, he could see Candi sitting at a table, looking bored.  God, she looked like shit.  They had broken up late in the fall of 1979, so it hadn’t been _that_ long, but she looked at least fifteen years older, maybe twenty.  Her hair was dyed a very unconvincing red, as if she was covering up gray hair, and her face was lined and leathery.  Maybe she had moved off heroin to something even worse?  Or maybe that was just what eight years of solid heroin use did to a person?  All the more reason for Curt to be glad he’d managed to break the habit.

            “Before you go in to see her, I need you to sign this,” the cop said, holding out a clipboard and pen towards Curt.

            Curt sighed and took them from him.  He looked at the paper to read it over before signing it—both Alicia and Arthur were always reminding him to never sign _anything_ without reading it—but it was blank, and so was the other side.  “What the fuck?  This isn’t a form.  What’s going on?”  He fixed the rookie cop with a glare that made the young man squirm.

            “No, uh…my sister’s a big fan of yours…” the cop admitted in a suddenly squeaky voice.  “I thought your autograph would make a nice Christmas present for her…”

            Curt let out a chuckle of relief.  “Shoulda just said so.  What’s her name?”

            “Gertrude.”

            Curt resisted the urge to add “my sympathies on your parents’ terrible choice of names” to the message he wrote on the piece of paper.  The girl probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

            After the cop had thanked him for the autograph, he opened the door for Curt to go into the interrogation room where Candi was waiting for him.  “Do I have a time limit or anything?” Curt asked.

            “Not as such,” the cop told him, “but you know, within reason.  You can’t just stay all day or anything.”

            “Yeah, I doubt I’d want to,” Curt chuckled, then headed inside.

            Candi got to her feet on seeing him, and ran over to give him a hug.  She smelled like she hadn’t bathed in a week, even though she’d only been locked up a few days.  “You came to see me!” she exclaimed.  “I’m so happy!”

            “Get off me!”  Curt pushed her away.  “Don’t they have a fucking shower in their lock-up?”

            “Do I smell?”

            “Yeah.  Bad.”  Curt sat down at the table, and Candi resumed her seat, looking at him uncomfortably.  “So why the fuck didn’t you ever tell me you got pregnant?”

            Candi laughed uncomfortably.  “Well, you got involved with that other girl so fast, and…and I kind of had a new boyfriend, too, and—”

            “So how do you know _he_ wasn’t the father?” Curt countered.  Though the resemblance between Mick and Alex didn’t really leave much chance of that.

            Candi laughed.  “Well, he was black, so _obviously_ Mick can’t be _his_ son.”

            “Fair enough,” Curt agreed.  “But that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me earlier that I had a kid.  I’d gotten dumped again long before he was born.”

            “Yeah, and you were in _jail_ when he was born,” Candi told him, scowling.  “I had to get my boyfriend to forge your signature on the birth certificate!”

            Curt just stared at her for about thirty seconds, unable to think of anything to say to that.  “You know, you can mark the father as absent, rather than forging a signature,” he finally said.  “Especially when he’s in fucking jail.”

            “Oh.  I didn’t think of that.”

            Curt sighed.  That signature probably meant he could be facing criminal charges for never having paid for Mick’s upkeep until now.  Well, except that he was in jail when the document was signed, so he could obviously prove that he wasn’t the one that signed it.

            “So when are you getting me out of here?” Candi asked.

            “You know it’s not that easy,” Curt told her, scowling.  “I don’t have a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.  If I did, I’d have used it for myself.  I know some good lawyers, though.  I won’t leave you out to dry.”

            “And they’ll get me out, right?”

            “Candi, you were caught with even more heroin than _I_ was, _and_ it was in your bloodstream,” Curt reminded her.  “No fucking way are you just walking free.  But your record’s clean otherwise, right?” he asked.  Candi nodded.  “So the lawyer can probably convince the jury to give you mandatory rehab instead of a jail sentence.  Since you’re a single mother and all.”  Though the ‘single mother’ plea would seem a lot less impressive coming from a lawyer being paid by the child’s father.

            “Am I gonna still be locked up until the trial’s over?” Candi asked, her voice shaking.

            “No, I’ll pay your bail,” Curt sighed.  He didn’t have any idea what her bail was set at, but he could afford it, whatever it was.  “And then you and Mick can both stay at my place until the trial.”  So that she would have no chance of skipping town and leaving Curt on the hook for…whatever happened when someone on bail skipped out.

            “I know Mick’ll love that,” Candi said, smiling widely.  Fuck, what had happened to her teeth?  Half of them were gone!  “I’ve always told him about how great you are in bed.”

            “I really don’t think that’s what you should have been telling him.”  That was fucked up.  Even in the trailer park, no one would have said _that_.

            “And he loves listening to your music!” Candi added.  “I’ve shown him lots of pictures of you with your cute boyfriend, too.”

            “Uh…yeah…”  The more Candi talked, the more Curt didn’t want Arthur to meet her.  It was humiliating to think he’d ever fucked this woman.

            They kept talking for a little while longer before Curt managed to make up an excuse to get out of there.  The whole experience had left him with an uncomfortable gnawing sensation in his gut.  He was still trying to tell himself that was just the lingering side effects of his cold by the time he got back to the lobby of the police station.  As he approached them, Arthur and Mick both got to their feet, but Arthur immediately told Mick to sit down again.

            As the boy obeyed, Arthur hurried over to Curt.  “You’re not gonna get his mum out of jail, are you?” he asked quietly, sounding worried.

            “Well, that was sort of the plan…why?”

            “Mick was tellin’ me that she regularly shoots up right in front of ‘im,” Arthur whispered, his accent becoming thicker in his distress.  “And when ‘e tried to stop ‘er once, she offered to _share_ it!”

            “She offered heroin to a seven year old?” Curt repeated, in the hopes he had misheard, even though he knew he hadn't.

            “Maybe she was just jokin’, but…”

            “No, I believe it,” Curt sighed.  “Go wait with him for a minute more.  I told her I was gonna pay her bail.  Need to make sure she gets the message that I’m not, and why.”

            Arthur nodded, and rejoined Mick.  Curt headed back over to the desk sergeant.  “Going to pay the woman’s bail, are you?” the sergeant asked.

            “No, I’m not,” Curt told him.  “But I told her I was.  So do you think you could send her the brief message that our son was telling my…friend…some things that made me decide that maybe it would be better for the boy if he wasn’t exposed to her again until after she’s off heroin for good?”

            “Of course,” the sergeant said, nodding his head.  “I think that’s a wise decision,” he added.

            “But tell her I’m still gonna pay for her lawyer, okay?  I’m not completely abandoning her.”

            “Sure thing.”

            “Oh, and is there a phone I can use?” Curt asked.

            “There’s a pay phone near the entrance,” the sergeant told him, pointing it out.

            “Thanks.”  Curt headed over to the phone and called Alicia.  “It’s hard to explain why—especially over the phone—but I’m gonna have a kid staying with me for a while,” he told her.  “He’s about the same age as your son.  So I was wondering if maybe you could help me get some stuff for him?  He doesn’t have any clothes with him or anything.”

            “Curt, have you done something illegal?”

            “Of course not!”

            “Then you got some girl knocked up,” Alicia concluded.  “What _will_ your boyfriend think?”

            “If you won’t help, just say so.”

            “What, exactly, are you wanting me to do?”

            “Just meet us somewhere to help us buy him some clothes,” Curt told her.  “I don’t know shit about buying clothes for kids.  And I don’t think Arthur does, either.”

            “All right.  I can be at Macy’s in about half an hour.  Does that sound good?”

            “Yeah.  We’ll be there.”

            As the three of them left the police station, Curt told Mick that they were going to go buy him some new clothes.  “But Mom doesn’t like to buy me clothes,” Mick objected.  “She says I’m just going to grow out of them, so there’s no point in wasting money on them.”

            “What kind of crazed logic is that?!” Arthur objected instantly.

            “Your mom doesn’t have much money,” Curt told Mick, “but I’ve got plenty of it, so you’re gonna have the nice clothes I never had as a kid.  Okay?”

            “Okay.”  Mick looked at him curiously.  “Why didn’t you have nice clothes as a kid?”

            “Because your father was raised by wolves, of course,” Arthur laughed.

            Curt laughed too, but Mick was scowling at them.  “People can’t be raised by wolves.  That’s stupid.”

            “I didn’t have nice things when I was a kid because my parents were broke,” Curt told him, “and they had three kids to pay for.  I only ever got to wear my brother’s old clothes.”  And sometimes his sister’s.

            “Like how most of my clothes are hand-me-downs from the kid upstairs,” Mick said, nodding.

            “Can we change the subject?” Arthur asked.  “I don’t like feelin’ like I’m from bloody privilege.”

            “Your fault for being born into a family that didn’t live on the edge of poverty!” Curt laughed.

            “What kind of talk is that?!”

            “Where _did_ you come from?” Mick asked, looking at Arthur.  “Mom keeps changing her mind about where you’re from.  She said England and then she said Scotland and then she said Liverpool and then she said—”

            “Manchester,” Arthur said, cutting him off.  “I came from Manchester.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “Northern part of England,” Curt told him.  “It’s fucking cold there.”

            “Curt, don’t swear in front of a child.  And Manchester’s nowhere near as cold as Michigan.”

            Curt shrugged.

            “Why did you come to America?” Mick asked, looking at Arthur.  “Was it because you wanted to be with my dad?”

            Arthur blushed adorably.  “That…that was part of it…” he admitted.  Curt was impressed.  He’d never admitted that before.

            “You mean there was more to it?” Curt asked, doing his best to sound insulted.  Arthur’s blush deepened.  Still as cute as ever!

            By the time they were getting in the car, Mick was asking countless little questions about what it was like to travel all the way from England to America and if it was hard to move so far away, and if he ever missed his family, and…the kid was talking so fast that Curt was surprised he didn’t run out of breath.  He wasn’t giving Arthur much of a chance to answer, either, but that was probably for the best.  Arthur wasn’t good at talking about himself.


	13. Chapter 13

            Arthur’s head was swimming long before they got back to the flat.  How was he supposed to keep up with so much happening in a single day?  This morning, everything was normal, but here they were, bringing home the son Curt never knew he had, while the boy’s mother was awaiting trial for drug possession?  And, as if the shock itself wasn’t enough, they’d just spent nearly two hours in Macy’s with Alicia and her son, picking out clothes for Curt’s son.  All indications were that Curt’s son had been raised in even more extreme poverty than Curt himself, a possibility that would never have crossed Arthur’s mind.  Why in the world hadn’t the mother ever tried to contact Curt and get financial help for their son?  Could there really be no reason other than her crippling drug addiction?

            Still, the shopping expedition—guilt-inducing as it was for someone like Arthur who had been raised in a pleasant, if stiflingly rigid, middle-class environment—also had its entertaining side.  Mick had somehow never been in a department store before, so seeing Macy’s already all decked out for Christmas was like entering a wonderland for him:  he had wandered about with his little mouth hanging open, gazing at everything in sheer delight.

            The clothes shopping itself had been excruciatingly boring, and Curt had wandered off while Alicia was supervising the selection of the clothes.  Arthur eventually found Curt in the toy department, buying some action figures for the child.  Only after staring at them for quite some time did Arthur realise that they were much smaller variants of the toy-line he knew as “Action Man.”  Mick was thrilled to be getting store-bought toys, especially for no reason.  He told them that ‘Gramma Ursula’ always gave him books for Christmas, and that ‘Grampa Fred’ would give him some little wooden toy he’d made himself, usually more building blocks.  That, apparently, was the entire extent of Mick’s personal possessions, aside from second-hand clothes that rarely fit him.

            Only at extreme questioning from Alicia did Mick clarify that the couple he referred to as if they were his grandparents were actually just the older couple who lived in the flat next to his mother’s.  Curt said he’d only met the old man, because the old woman was sick.

            After they left Macy’s, Alicia had given them both considerable lectures about how to take care of a child, and had promised—threatened, as Curt put it—to check in on them and the boy several times a day until Mick was safely returned to his mother.  Arthur wasn’t so sure that Mick could ever be considered ‘safe’ around his mum, but it wasn’t really possible to make that clear to Alicia in a public setting, especially with two little children running about.  He’d have to make sure she understood the full situation next time she called, if he could talk to her without Mick in the room.

            When Curt was finally pulling his car into its spot in the car park under their building, Arthur was very ready to get some rest back in their flat.  First, however, they had to carry five shopping bags full of the child’s new clothes to the lift, and then they’d have to get the boy settled in.  For the foreseeable future, Arthur wasn’t going to have an office anymore:  it was going to become Mick’s bedroom.

            The first thing to do was to give Mick a tour of the flat.  Arthur let Curt handle that, while he unpacked the clothes into the dresser and closet.  He also had to remove all sorts of his office things from the room.  He’d left boxes and boxes of diskettes—his few games and non-productive software, not to mention copies of three years’ worth of articles for _Freedoms_ —as well as tonnes of reference books, and the occasional mildly racy bit of reading he kept in there to perk himself up when his work started getting him sleepy.  Curt didn’t know about those…Arthur was going to have to either hide them again, or fess up to having them.  Then again, Curt still routinely bought pornographic movies, so he really didn’t have any room to complain.

            Ah, the porn!  They’d have to find a better place to hide it, lest Mick accidentally discover it!  Arthur would have to remember to take care of that as soon as the boy was safely in bed.

            Once Arthur was done getting his office converted into Mick’s bedroom, he went into the living room, and was surprised to find that rather than being shown around, Mick was sitting before the telly, playing _Super Mario Bros._

            “Curt, is this really a good use of time?” Arthur asked, trying not to sigh.

            “He’d never played Nintendo before!” Curt objected.  It was almost a whine, and quite cute, but Arthur couldn’t let it sway him.

            “Mick, do you have homework to do?”

            Mick’s hands shook, and on the screen poor Mario got killed by one of those brown, walking mushroom-looking things.  “Homework?” he repeated, looking up at Arthur with wide, guilty eyes.

            “You do, then?”

            “Um…I’m not on vacation?”

            “Are you?” Arthur asked.  He had no idea when schools let out for Christmas.

            “I thought…if I was coming here, I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore…” Mick objected.

            “Alicia would kill me,” Curt said, scowling.  “But where do you go to school, anyway?  Must be the school near where you lived, huh?”

            Mick nodded.

            “Shit.  I’ll have to drive you to and from school,” Curt sighed.

            “Curt, stop swearin’ in front of the boy.”

            “C’mon, everyone swears!”

            “Not in front of children!” Arthur insisted.

            “Mom’s boyfriends say bad words in front of me all the time,” Mick interjected.

            “She brings her boyfriends home?” Arthur asked, horrified.

            Curt laughed.  “You really _did_ have a sheltered childhood, didn’t you?  That’s completely fucking normal.”

            “Curt, _please_.  At least _try_ not to swear in front of him.”

            Curt sighed heavily, then looked at Mick.  “When does your school get out for Christmas?”

            “Um…the 22nd,” Mick answered sadly.  “Do I really hafta keep going?”

            “Yeah, you do,” Curt told him.  “I’m not letting any kid drop out of school younger than I did.”

            “Curt, I don’t think we should either of us admit that we didn’t finish school,” Arthur rebuked him, making Curt start laughing so heavily that he had another coughing fit.

            Once Curt was done coughing, he looked at Mick closely.  “Do you like your school?  Have any friends there?”

            “I hate it!  The kids are all mean to me ‘cause I don’t have a dad, and even though I tell ‘em I do, they don’t believe me!” Mick exclaimed, leaping to his feet.  “And the teachers all say nasty things about Mom whenever they think I can’t hear them.”

            “Well, they’ll know you have a dad when I start bringing you to school,” Curt assured him, tousling his hair affectionately.  “But why didn’t you ever ask your mom to give you a picture of me to prove it?  She’s gotta have at least one.  That girl practically had her Polaroid vacuum-sealed to her wrist.”

            “She _did_ give me a picture,” Mick told him.  “It’s in my bookbag.”  Without waiting, he ran off to the dining room, where he had ditched his bag as soon as they got into the flat.  Bringing the whole bag back, Mick plopped down on the floor again and started digging through it.  He eventually retrieved a battered Polaroid photo and handed it to Curt.  “See?  It’s you and Mom!”

            “Fucking hell!” Curt exclaimed.

            “Curt!”

            “See for yourself!” Curt snarled, shoving the photo in front of Arthur’s face.

            “Bloody Norah!  Your mother lets you see that?!”  The photo did indeed show Curt with his arm around a woman.  It would be a perfectly acceptable photo if it weren’t for the fact that the woman wasn’t wearing anything to cover her breasts.  “I can’t believe your teachers never took that away from you,” Arthur said, looking at Mick with pity.

            “Some of the older boys tried to take it once,” Mick said, “but I took it back by showing ‘em how tough I am!”

            Curt sighed, looking down at the photo.  “Well, I’m taking it away for now,” he said, shaking his head.  “You can have it back after I’ve…fixed it a bit.”

            “What’s wrong with it?” Mick asked, looking at him with confusion.

            “You’ll understand when you’re older.”  Curt tucked the offensive photo into his pocket, then looked back at his son.  “I’ll talk to Alicia about finding you a new school to go to,” he went on.  “Someplace you won’t be picked on.”

            “Okay.  But it won’t be filled with rich kids like the ones at the store, will it?” Mick asked, his voice shaking.  “I don’t think they’ll like me.”

            “They’re not that rich,” Curt told him.  “Just don’t worry about it, okay?  You go on back to your game for now.”

            Mick nodded, and picked up the controller.  As soon as he was safely concentrated on Mario’s jumping again, Curt headed over to the phone on the far side of the room.  Arthur followed him, feeling worried.  “Curt, what about getting his mum a solicitor?” he asked.  “We haven’t done anything about that yet.”

            “Alicia’s working on it.  Or she said she was.”  Curt shrugged.  “Go keep him company while I call her.”

            Arthur nodded, and joined Mick in front of the telly.  The child wasn’t very good at the game—though he was better than Arthur had been the first time he’d tried it—but he seemed to be enjoying it anyway.  Still, after dinner, he would have to do his homework…


	14. Chapter 14

            Dinner had been a take-out pizza, and afterwards Mick had complained considerably about doing his homework.  But he finished it quickly enough that they let him watch television for an hour before going to bed.  Curt had left most of the disciplinarian activities to Arthur:  he felt like a hypocrite telling the kid to do schoolwork, considering how little of his own he had ever done.  And he couldn’t very well say “do your homework so you won’t end up a loser like me,” considering his once mighty rock career.

            Once Mick was in bed, Curt wanted to turn in as well, because it had been far too long since they had had sex, but Arthur insisted on staying up another hour to make sure Mick wouldn’t come out again.  Curt’s suggestion that they could lock the kid in his room was soundly and instantly rejected.  Arthur also insisted on moving the porn from behind the regular tapes to the upper shelf in the bedroom closet, where Mick couldn’t possibly stumble across it.  Curt had no objections to that, but looking at all those porn boxes just made him even hornier than he already was.

            Eventually, Arthur announced that he was going to take a shower before turning in for the night.  That suited Curt just fine, and he quickly joined Arthur in the shower.

            “I didn’t intend it to be a group shower,” Arthur sighed.

            “You want me to go?”

            “Of course not, love.  But you’re still recoverin’.  Don’t expect we’re gonna do anything strenuous in here.”

            Curt shrugged, and moved closer so they could kiss.  The longer they spent kissing, the more anxious Curt became to start getting it on, though.  But there was no way Arthur was going to go for it, if he wanted Curt to avoid ‘strenuous’ activities…

            He had a sudden thought that made him start laughing into the kiss.

            “Is something wrong?” Arthur asked, pulling back so he could look into Curt’s face.

            Curt chuckled, and shook his head.  “Nope.  Just thought maybe this would be a good time to live up to my promise,” he said, before kneeling down in the shower.  Arthur was only semi-erect, but a few loving caresses fixed that with unusual speed.

            “C-Curt, you don’t have to—”  Arthur’s unsteady objection was silenced at the first touch of Curt’s tongue against his cock.

            For the first twenty or thirty seconds, Arthur just let out pleased moans, but as soon as Curt started really sucking on him, he gasped, and started trying to object again.  Curt ignored his objections until he said “What if Mick hears us?”  Of all the stupid…!

            Curt released Arthur’s erection and looked up at him with a wry smile.  “Through three closed doors _and_ over the sound of the shower?  He’s a kid, not Superman.  He’s not gonna hear anything.”  His smile expanded into a grin.  “But if you’re really so worried about being heard, then just bite your finger to keep from making noise.  My role’s totally silent, after all,” he added, with a wink.  Then he resumed his activities before Arthur could try to come up with any new objections.

            Because he was really enjoying it, Curt was pulling out all the stops.  Unfortunately, that made it over all the more quickly.  After swallowing Arthur’s load, Curt got to his feet, and gently kissed his somewhat dazed lover.  “How was that?” he asked.  “Good enough?”

            Arthur nodded, with a placid smile, then kissed him passionately.  As they were kissing, Arthur’s hand slowly slid down Curt’s side, then slipped in front to grab at Curt’s erection, jerking him off.  Pretty soon, the pleasure was so great that Curt couldn’t contribute to the kiss any longer, just standing there reveling in the feeling.

            Once Curt came, they spent a little while longer kissing, then went about the ordinary, mundane tasks of actually getting clean.  “Let’s not make a habit of this,” Arthur suggested, with a light chuckle.

            “Why not?” Curt asked, feeling a bit annoyed.  Was Arthur suddenly going to say there had been something wrong with his performance?

            “It’d be murder on our water bill,” Arthur replied.

            Curt laughed.  “We can afford it.  I’ve got a new record coming out, remember?”

            “I’d never forget that, my love,” Arthur assured him, with another light kiss.

            They had barely finished getting dressed after their shower when the knocking started on the bedroom door.  It was tentative, almost fearful, but it wasn’t letting up.  “You’d better answer it,” Arthur said.  “He’s _your_ son, after all.  It’ll be you he’s wantin’ to see.”

            Curt nodded, and headed for the door, but he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the whole idea of being a father.  It’d be different if he’d known about it before the kid was born, instead of suddenly having the kid thrust on him at this late stage.  It all still felt like a bad joke…

            Mick was standing on the other side of the door in the plaid pajamas that Alicia had picked out for him.  He was crying.  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Curt asked, crouching down to look into the kid’s face.  What was he supposed to say to a crying child?  He’d never really been around one before.  Not as an adult, anyway.

            The boy launched a hug at his neck.  “I had a bad dream,” he whimpered.  “Can I sleep in here with you, Daddy?”

            To anyone else, it would have been a perfectly normal request.  To Curt, it felt more like an invitation to a jail cell.  He knew what other people thought of him, and of all the people like him.  And anyone who knew what had happened with his brother back when he was a kid…well, they’d think that he’d be likely to repeat that ‘abuse,’ despite that ‘abuse’ wasn’t really the word he’d use to describe it.  Not that he was sure what word he _would_ use.  His brother was a fucked-up asshole, and treated everyone around him accordingly.  But he’d never been violent, never used threats.  He had made demands, and Curt had obeyed.  Because he was supposed to do what his older brother told him.  And maybe some part of him had kind of wanted to.  God knows he enjoyed the same activities with Arthur—and he’d enjoyed them with Brian, too.

            “Did you often sleep in the same bed with your mum?” Arthur asked from behind Curt.

            Mick let go of Curt’s neck and shook his head.  “Only when she doesn’t have a boyfriend.  They never let me in when she had a friend over.”  Well, at least Candi had _some_ shame.  “Why do you say ‘mum’ instead of ‘mom’?” Mick added, looking at Arthur curiously.

            That made Curt laugh.  “Because English people sometimes talk funny,” he said.

            “It’s you Americans who use the wrong words,” Arthur countered, in a false tone of snippishness.  “And the wrong spellings.”

            “We’re just more efficient, not wasting all those extra ‘u’s everywhere,” Curt laughed.

            Arthur sighed, and patted Mick on the head, ignoring Curt altogether.  “Would you like a glass of warmed milk to help you get to sleep?” he asked.

            “Ick,” was the boy’s only response.

            “He’s your son all right,” Arthur sighed, making Curt laugh.

            “Do _you_ drink warm milk?” Mick asked, looking at Arthur suspiciously.

            “I don’t have any trouble sleepin’ these days,” Arthur replied, “but when I was little, my mum would warm up some milk for me if I couldn’t sleep.”

            “Did it work?”

            “Yes, it did.”

            “Why?” Mick asked, his eyes wide and curious.

            “Er…I don’t really know,” Arthur admitted.

            Mick laughed at that, until his laughter was drowned out by a yawn.  The kid was probably exhausted.  It _was_ past eleven.  But the idea of him sleeping in here…

            “Do you think you can go back and sleep in your own room?” Curt asked.

            Mick shook his head, tears starting to spill out of his eyes.  “It’s lonely in there!” he wailed.

            “It should be all right for just one night,” Arthur said, setting a hand on Curt’s shoulder.  “We’ll do something tomorrow to make it less lonely for you in your room,” he added, looking at Mick.

            “Like getting me a puppy?” the boy asked, his eyes wide and shining.

            “I was thinkin’ more along the lines of a teddy bear,” Arthur replied.  It was almost a cough.

            “Oh.  That’s good, too,” Mick agreed, with a tiny smile.

            Curt still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of letting Mick stay in their bed with them, but since Arthur had already said it would be okay, how could he turn around and say ‘no’ to it?  If Mick was gonna stay with them until Candi finished her rehab, then he’d be with them at least six months, probably more like a year.  Starting out by bickering in front of the kid would make that a lot harder.  So he got back to his feet and headed over to the bed.  Mick hurried along beside him, grinning happily.

            “Just don’t think this is gonna be a usual thing,” Curt told Mick.  “Me and Arthur don’t want a kid in here with us every night.”

            Mick nodded, then giggled.  “My teachers always lecture us if we say ‘me and him’,” he said.

            Curt grimaced.  “Yeah, yeah, I shoulda said ‘Arthur and I’,” he sighed.  Great.  Now he was getting grammar lessons from a second grader.  And of course Arthur was laughing his ass off on the other side of the bed.


	15. Chapter 15

            Arthur felt a bit cold as he woke up.  Instead of being snuggled up together in the centre of the bed, they way they usually were, Curt was lying on his back on his own side of the bed.  The sight of a little blond head on Curt’s other side gave Arthur a momentary shock, until his brain woke up enough to remember the previous day’s events.  Mick was sleeping beside his father, both his little arms wrapped around Curt’s arm, as if it was a stuffed animal.  The sight was so adorable that if Arthur had had a camera handy, he certainly would have taken a photo of it.

            The sweetness of the tableau was soon ruined by Curt having a coughing fit.  They were heavy, moist coughs, and Arthur could hear the mucus in his lover’s lungs even from the other side of the bed.  The coughing woke Mick before it woke Curt.

            “What’s wrong, Daddy?” Mick asked, shaking Curt’s shoulder.

            “He’s havin’ a relapse,” Arthur sighed.  “Better move away from him or you might catch it, too.”

            “What does he have?” Mick asked, looking at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes.  Even a seven year old had heard of AIDS, then.

            “It’s just a cold,” Arthur assured him, with a warm smile.  “Your father should have been restin’ yesterday, but instead he spent all afternoon out doin’ things, so he’s gotten sick again when he should have gotten better.”  The lengthy shower undoubtedly didn’t help, either, especially considering he didn’t stop to use a hairdryer after.

            “It’s my fault?” Mick asked, his lower lip trembling.

            “Of course not,” Arthur assured him.  “He’d been tryin’ to find an excuse to get out of bed all day.”

            “Excuse me for getting bored at being cooped up all day!” Curt snarled, his voice thick with the gurgles in his lungs.

            “Well, now you’ll be cooped up even longer,” Arthur told him, frowning.  “I’ll bring you in breakfast.  You just stay in bed and rest.”

            “Not again,” Curt moaned.

            Arthur gave him a light kiss.  “Just be a good boy, and I’ll come back to keep you company as soon as I can.”

            Curt sighed, and nodded.

            Arthur led Mick out into the kitchen, and started making some oatmeal.  “The problem’s gettin’ you to school,” he said, looking at Mick.  “Can’t very well send a boy your age on the subway alone.”

            “I’ve ridden the subway alone before,” Mick insisted.  Arthur didn’t believe a word of it.

            “Regardless, I’m not allowin’ it,” Arthur told him.  If nothing else, it would be proving that he and Curt were not fit to look after a child, even in the short term.

            “So you’re gonna drive me to school, then?”

            “I don’t know how to drive,” Arthur admitted, making Mick laugh.  “Maybe Alicia…no, she’ll be off takin’ her own son to school right now.  No time to come get you, too.”  He frowned as he stirred the oatmeal.  “I don’t like it much, but I think we’ll just call your school and tell them you can’t make it today.  I’m sure you can miss one day without much threat to your education.”

            “Lots of kids skip more days than they show up,” Mick assured him.  “No one even cares.”

            “Well, you’ll not be one of those kids.  I’m callin’ your school as soon as we’ve eaten breakfast.  Do you have the school’s number anywhere?”

            Mick shrugged.  “It might be in one of my school books,” he said.

            When the oatmeal was ready, Arthur took Curt his bowl full, along with a glass of juice, then he returned to the dining room to stay with Mick while he ate.  It pained him to leave Curt alone for the meal, but trusting a seven year old not to make a mess with such a sticky, goopy breakfast?  It sounded like inviting disaster.

            After breakfast, Mick brought his bag into the living room, and Arthur looked through it for the telephone number of the school.  Thankfully, it had been stamped inside the front cover of all his school books.  He dialled it, and was soon talking to a receptionist.

            “Uh, yes, I’m callin’ about one of your students,” Arthur told her.  “Second grader named Mick Wild.  He won’t be comin’ in today.”

            “Why is that?” the woman asked.  “And who is this?”

            “He can’t come in because he’s in the process of transferrin’ residence from his mother’s place to his father’s, and—”

            “That boy doesn’t have a father,” the woman replied sternly.  “His mother lied and claimed his father was a gay rock star.”  She paused, but not long enough for Arthur to begin his string of objections to what she was saying.  “Surely no one in authority was stupid enough to hand over an innocent little boy to a pair of faggots!” she exclaimed in a horrified tone.

            “The boy’s mother was not lying about who his father was,” Arthur said, feeling a strain on his voice as he fought to tamp down as much of his accent as he possibly could, despite that a stressful situation like this was when it usually flared up and became more pronounced.  “And considering his mother’s drug habit, you ought to be pleased to see the child transferred to more responsible parties.”

            “How could any decent human being be happy to see a child handed over to men who’re going to make him their sex toy?!” the woman exclaimed.  “I’m calling the cops!” she added, before hanging up.

            “Bollocks!”  Arthur slammed the receiver down.  “You’re never goin’ back to that school again!” he shouted, looking over at Mick.

            The boy seemed a little cowed, but he tried to smile.  “Good,” he said, though his voice was trembling a bit.  “I hate it there.”

            Arthur swallowed guiltily.  “I’m sorry I yelled,” he sighed.  “That woman on the phone was bein’…very unreasonable.”  He doubted a seven year old knew the word ‘homophobic,’ so what point was there in going into detail?  “But you’re not on permanent holiday from school, so don’t get any ideas to that effect,” he added.  “We were already goin’ to find you a new school anyway.  For now, go keep your father company, all right?  But don’t let him cough on you.”

            Mick giggled, then looked over at the television longingly.  “Can’t I stay in here and play Nintendo?”

            “It’s better if you’re not in here for the phone call I’m about to make,” Arthur said.  “You go in and tell Curt you won’t be goin’ to school today, and I’ll bring the Nintendo in and hook it up to the telly in the bedroom.”  Then both parties he’d need to babysit would be together in the same room, and save him a bit of headache.

            “Okay!”  Mick smiled widely, then ran off towards the bedroom.

            Once he was safely out of the room, Arthur dialled Alicia’s number, praying that either she or her husband would still be at home.  Thankfully, Alicia answered the phone right away.  “I’m glad you’re still there,” Arthur said.  “I was worried you were maybe takin’ your son to school.”

            “No, Tim usually drives Ken to school, since it’s near his office,” Alicia told him.  “Let me guess, Curt’s had a relapse.”

            Arthur sighed.  “That’s only the start of it,” he said, then explained to her about the phone call he’d just made.

            “I’m sorry to say I’m not surprised,” Alicia said with a resigned sigh.  “I doubt the police will act on it even if she does call them, since she hasn’t got a shred of proof anything’s wrong, and wouldn’t even know where to tell them to look for the child, but I’ll contact them anyway.  And then I’ll call Ken’s school and see about signing Mick up to attend there.”

            “Can he start right away, or will he have to wait until next term?” Arthur asked.

            “That’ll be up to the school,” Alicia replied, “but I’d think they’ll want him to wait until after the Christmas break.  I really could have done without the headache of all this extra work,” she added, in a reproachful voice.

            “I’d rather not ‘ave had to deal with all this myself,” Arthur agreed, “but you wouldn’t want Curt to abandon his own son, would you?”

            “No, of course not.”  There was a slight pause.  “You’re not planning on leaving the apartment today, are you?”

            “Definitely not,” Arthur assured her.

            “Good.  I’ll probably have to call back several times today.  Oh, and that lawyer may call about the case to defend the boy’s mother.”

            “I’m glad to hear it.”  Arthur wanted a better idea of just how long they were going to be looking after the child.  Hopefully it wouldn’t be too long.

            Once the phone call was over—it naturally couldn’t end before Alicia gave yet another lecture on proper child care—Arthur unhooked the Nintendo, then went through the drawer looking at the games.  The boy might want to play something other than _Super Mario Bros._ after a while.  Selecting a few that seemed like they might be both appropriate for a child and not _too_ difficult, Arthur brought everything into the bedroom, where he found Mick jumping on the bed.  With his shoes on.  On Arthur’s side of the bed.

            “Get down from there!” Arthur shouted.  “Curt, why didn’t you stop him?”

            Curt just laughed.  Then it turned into coughs about the same time Mick climbed down off the bed.  “I always wanted to be able to do that when I was his age,” Curt explained, once he was done coughing.

            “You could at least ‘ave made him take his shoes off first,” Arthur sighed.

            “Sorry, baby.”

            Arthur shook his head, and started hooking up the Nintendo to the bedroom television.  It was much smaller than the one in the living room, of course, but since the boy would probably sit less than six inches away from the screen, that hardly seemed to matter.  Soon, Mick was sitting on the floor playing the game, with his father occasionally croaking out advice from the other side of the room, in between coughs.  Arthur was trying his hardest to work on his article, but it wasn’t really going too well with so many distractions in the room with him.

            It was nearly noon when the phone rang.  An unfamiliar man’s voice asked to speak to Curt.  He sounded officious, making Arthur worry that the police were acting on that woman’s paranoia despite Alicia’s efforts.  But Arthur handed over the phone regardless.  Even if it would be upsetting to Curt, it was still important to do things right.

            “Yeah?” Curt said into the receiver.  He listened for a few minutes, then fell to coughing.  “Look, I’m kinda sick right now,” he said.  “Just tell Arthur about it, okay?  Yeah, it’s fine—just think of telling him something as telling it to me.”  He paused, listening.  “Well, you’ll talk to a guy’s wife when he can’t come to the phone, right?”  Arthur couldn’t help blushing at the comparison, his heart beating madly.  Even as long as they’d been together, Curt had never made _that_ comparison before.  It felt as if their relationship had just moved up to a higher plane, something pure and perfect and eternal.  Though perhaps he was making too much of it…

            Curt was soon holding the telephone out towards Arthur, and gesturing him to take it, though he couldn’t say anything to that effect, because he was too busy coughing.  “Hello?” Arthur said into the receiver.

            “This is somewhat unorthodox,” the man on the other end said, his voice chilly, “but so is the entire case, so I suppose I can permit it under these circumstances.  But in the interest of lawyer/client confidentiality, I will not divulge anything to you that is not available in the public record.”

            “Uh, sure.”  So this was the solicitor Alicia had hired, not the police.  That was good.  “You’ve started work on defendin’ her?”

            “I’ve begun the process of taking over her case, yes,” the man said.  “Miss Candace Williams has already had a preliminary hearing, being represented by the public defender’s office.  She pled ‘not guilty,’ despite her lawyer’s encouragement to the contrary, and insisted that she be let off as the only support of her child.  Her trial was delayed while the police attempted to locate the child, but he was not in her apartment, and the police in that district are frankly too overworked to spend any time hunting for him.”

            “He’s here now,” Arthur told him.

            “Yes, so Mrs. Richardson told me when she hired me,” the solicitor said, “and I informed the local police of that fact when I went to speak to Miss Williams.  Though they seemed to already be aware of it.”

            “So…uh…”

            “My client—or rather, the defendant—insists that she isn’t guilty, and that she does not want to serve jail time.  I was told by Mrs. Richardson, however, that the idea is to see that the defendant is put into a mandatory drug rehabilitation program?”

            “Yes, that’s right,” Arthur agreed.  “As it is, she’s hardly a suitable mother,” he added, in a low voice so Mick wouldn’t overhear.

            “Off the record, I certainly agree with that,” the solicitor commented, with a dry chuckle.  “Looking at the evidence against her, I have to agree with the public defender’s office,” he went on.  “There is no way for Miss Williams to avoid jail time.  Her best bet is to enter a plea of ‘guilty’ and hope for a reduced sentence.  Now that her son is safely in his father’s custody, she has no other possible hope of leniency.”

            “What kind of time frame are we lookin’ at?” Arthur asked.  “Best and worst case scenarios.  How long is the boy gonna be stayin’ with us?”

            “In the best possible outcome, I cannot imagine Miss Williams being able to resume caring for her child in less than a year,” the solicitor said.  “Worst case scenario, she could easily get ten to twenty years in jail.”

            Arthur fought the urge to let out a fearful oath at the notion of the boy’s mother being in jail until after he was a legal adult.  “If that’s the case, will Curt need to sign a legal custody form?”

            “It’s probably for the best that paperwork be signed, yes,” the solicitor agreed.  “Especially given his sexual orientation.”  The words stung, but after the conversation with the woman at Mick’s school, there was no question that they were true.  “I will bring the paperwork with me when I speak to Miss Williams again this afternoon.  Ideally, both parties should sign them at the same time, but under the present circumstances, I think that can be waived.”

            He had to hammer out a few more details with the solicitor, but soon Arthur was sending Mick to the kitchen to get a refill for Curt’s juice so that the two of them could have a few minutes’ conversation alone.  Curt already seemed quite resigned to the fact that Mick would be with them for a long time, perhaps due to his own experience with the American legal system.  He suggested that Arthur should call the old man who had been looking after Mick, to let him know the situation.  As soon as Mick returned with the juice, Arthur stepped out into the living room and found the note so he could place the call.

            After the old man answered the phone, Arthur awkwardly introduced himself, and explained who he was.  “I’m callin’ about Mick,” he went on.  “It sounds like he’s gonna be stayin’ with us at least a year, possibly a lot longer.”

            “I’m not surprised,” the old man laughed.  “Why would he want to come back to this place after he’s tasted the good life?”

            “That wasn’t what I was talkin’ about,” Arthur said feebly.  He knew exactly what the old man meant, though.  After staying just one night in Curt’s spacious flat, he had never wanted to go back to his own little rathole of a flat.  Though the situation had been radically different.

            “So what are you calling us for?” the old man went on.  “Just thought we’d be worried about the little tyke?”

            “Yes, mostly.  But I was also wonderin’ what kind of possessions he had left behind.  And, for that matter, if we can even get at them.  Will we need to speak to a landlord, or do you have a key to his mum’s flat, or—”  Arthur was cut off by the old man laughing.

            “Friederich Liebermann, landlord and owner, at your service,” he chuckled grimly.  “Buying this dump wasn’t my brightest idea, but it’s kept me and my wife with food on our tables since we got to this country.”  There was a bit of a pause.  “Actually, if the boy’s father was willing to pay some of Candi’s back rent, I’d sorely appreciate it.  My wife needs to see a doctor.”

            “Of course he’ll pay it,” Arthur said, smiling.  “Does Mick have many things to collect from the flat?”

            “Not many, no,” the old man replied.  “Just the books and things Ursula and I have given him over the years.  The clothes his mother put him in weren’t more than rags left over from other children.  She didn’t want to waste money on clothes when she could use it on drugs instead.”

            Arthur’s smile wilted.  “Yes, so I’ve heard.  But he’s going to have everything he needs from now on.”

            “I’ve heard his father has a drug problem, too.”  The old man’s voice was cold and hard.

            “That’s in the past,” Arthur assured him.  “He doesn’t even smoke anymore.”

            “Still drinks.”

            “Yes, but usually not to excess.  I’ve been tryin’ to keep him from takin’ anything too far.”  Arthur sighed.  “If the boy doesn’t have many things, perhaps we don’t have to hurry in to collect them,” he said.  “Curt’s had a bit of a relapse on his cold, so if we can wait a week or two until he’s really better, that would be nice.”  There was, after all, no way Curt would allow Arthur to go to a seedy neighbourhood like that one on his own.  Even though Arthur was a grown man well capable of looking after himself, Curt never seemed to resist the opportunity to coddle him.

            “I’ve got a policy not to empty an arrested tenant’s apartment until they’re convicted and sentenced to jail time, so you’ve got a window,” Liebermann laughed.  “And I’d be willing to stretch it a bit for that poor boy.  My Ursula’s got a soft spot for him.  Reminds her of the children we lost in the war.”

            “Ah…I’m sorry to hear about that,” Arthur said, feeling a pang.  “My mum’s parents both died in the Blitz,” he added.  It was the closest to ‘I know how you feel’ that he could get without lying.

            The old man let out a deep sigh.  “War destroys everything it touches,” he said.  “If you only instil one lesson in the boy, make sure it’s that one.”

            “I will,” Arthur promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who's been down with a cold for almost two weeks now, I officially lay the blame for Curt's relapse on his shower. Every time I take a bath, I get worse. :(
> 
> I think the whole thing is Curt's way of letting me know he's pissed at me for having him laid up with a cold in the first place. (I mean, how suspicious is it that I got sick two days before I was going to start posting this?)


	16. Chapter 16

            Lying in bed sick used to seem like the worst thing ever.  The worst that didn’t involve withdrawal, anyway.  Then Curt had to spend an entire fucking _day_ lying in bed, trying to sleep, with the Nintendo going at the foot of the bed, and Arthur’s keyboard clacking away over by the window.  Then Friday morning came, and Curt still felt like death warmed over, and yet bright and fucking early Mick came bouncing into the bedroom, wanting to play more games.  On top of everything else, the kid really sucked at it, but Arthur wouldn’t let Curt take over for him.

            Curt managed to hold on until about ten o’clock.  Then he could not stand it for one more minute!  “Get him the _fuck_ out of here!  I’m going to go crazy!”  Curt didn’t get much further than that in his rant before Arthur grabbed a pillow and started practically _smothering_ him.

            “Mick, go into the other room,” Arthur said, while still stifling Curt.  “You can start the game over in there.”

            Only once Mick was out of the room did Arthur finally let up with the pillow.  Curt was not shy about telling him what he thought of _that_ little maneuver, but Arthur completely ignored him, the fucker.  He just calmly went about unhooking the Nintendo, then shut off his computer.  As Arthur was headed out the bedroom door, the Nintendo under his arm, Curt picked up the offensive pillow and threw it at him as hard as he could.  “You just gave up one of your blowjobs, asshole!” Curt snarled at him.

            “Fine by me, love,” Arthur replied, giving him a surprisingly warm smile.  “I prefer givin’ ‘em to gettin’ ‘em anyway.”  Then he disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.

            Shit.  How was Curt supposed to stay angry at him after he went and said something like that?

            Miserably, Curt settled in for a nap.  He was awoken by the phone about noon.  He’d have gone right back to sleep, except Arthur popped his head into the room and told him the phone was for him.  It was Mandy, calling to tell him she’d listened to his new record, and she thought it was the best one he’d put out since 1979.  Nice of her, but just at the moment Curt didn’t actually care.

            Curt had no sooner hung up the phone than Arthur brought him a bowl of soup.  “I’m getting really sick of fucking soup,” Curt grumbled.

            “You’re supposed to drink it, not fuck it,” Arthur laughed.

            Curt flipped him off rather than bothering to reply to such a smartass comment.

            Arthur didn’t seem to care—of course he had to know that Curt didn’t really mean anything by it—and kissed him much too sweetly.  “What did Mandy want?” he asked.

            “Just congratulating me on the album,” Curt sighed.  “We’re gonna get that all day.”  Hopefully.  “May as well just let me answer the damn thing.”

            “Not like to do your rest much good, but you’re probably right,” Arthur agreed with a sigh.  “Were you at least able to get a bit more sleep?”

            “Yeah.”

            Arthur waited until Curt had finished eating, then cleared the bowl away, telling Curt to get as much rest as he could, even if it was only between calls.

            There weren’t actually many.  It was at least two o’clock when the phone next rang.  “Hello?” Curt croaked into the receiver once he finally managed to lift it to his face.

            “You sound bloody awful.”

            “Yeah, fuck you, too,” Curt snarled.

            Tommy laughed.  “I’ve had a listen to your new album.”

            “That was fast.”

            “It’s quite good.  Best thing you’ve put out since Berlin.”

            Curt chuckled.  “You’re more enthusiastic than your ex.  She said it was only my best this decade.”

            “Mandy’s ear just isn’t as highly trained as mine.”

            “Maybe you need to train your voice to match your ears,” Curt suggested.  “Since you’re only putting out shit these days.”

            “Well, aren’t you cheerful.  Don’t tell me you’ve had a fight with your pretty boy?”

            “Yeah, but we got over it.  Only now I’m sick as a dog.”

            “I always wondered what it took to make you apologize.  I guess it takes being on death’s door.”

            Curt did his best to laugh without triggering another coughing fit.  “No, I’m just allergic to it.”

            The soft, melodious laugh that used to fill Curt with desire didn’t do much for him now but to spark a painful nostalgia.  “That explains a lot.”  There was an awkward pause.  Their conversations tended to have a lot of those, now that Curt thought about it.  “Really, I do love the new record.”  A small chuckle.  “It’s tops.”

            Curt laughed quietly.  “Far out.”

            Tommy laughed, too.  “Are you busy for New Year’s?”

            The question, coming as abruptly as it did, took Curt’s breath away.  Admittedly, in his current condition, so did standing up, but it still left him unsure what to say for a minute.  “Arthur and I probably can’t have our usual celebration this year, but we’ll do something.”  Mick’s presence was going to make everything more complicated.

            “I wasn’t asking for a date.”

            “Then don’t make it sound like that’s what you’re asking, motherfucker!”

            A deep sigh.  “You’re too ready to think the world revolves around your willy.”

            “It does,” Curt insisted, laughing so hard it gave him another coughing fit.

            “I’m scheduled to have a television concert for New Year’s Eve,” Tommy went on, cutting over Curt’s coughing.  “They scheduled it before my latest album came out, and now the network’s having second thoughts.”  Because the public had finally started to wise up to the fact that the Tommy Stone name on an album meant the contents were garbage.

            “What, and you think if I join you, they won’t pull the plug?”

            “Our first performance together since 1973.  Who wouldn’t want to see that?”

            Curt shut his eyes for a minute.  “Well, yeah, if you put it that way, I guess so.”

            “So you’ll do it?”

            “I dunno, man.  That’s a big decision to come to so quick.  I still haven’t recovered from the last big thing to hit me in the face.”

            “What’s that?”

            Curt sighed, braced himself, then explained about Mick.  “Sounds like we’ll be stuck with him for years.”

            “There’s probably more of them out there, you know.”

            “No, I was usually pretty careful.  When I was sober.”

            “When did you ever sleep with a girl when you were sober?”

            “It did happen!” Curt insisted.  “Lots of times!”

            “Mm-hmm.  Of course it did.”  A snide, patronizing tone that hit Curt’s eardrums like fingernails on a blackboard.

            “So what do you think your new missus is gonna think about this little idea of yours?” Curt snapped, trying to get a little of his own back.

            “Shannon knows what’s best for my career.  She won’t object.”

            “Still can’t imagine why you married her.”

            “Well, she was a bit pregnant.  Or she thought she was.”

            “Yeah, doesn’t get around the heart of the problem,” Curt replied, shaking his head.  Shannon was kind of cute, but…sleeping with her?  No.  Just no.

            “Unlike you, I’ve always appreciated women.”

            “I like girls as much as—well—as much as any other bisexual man.”

            “That’s a load of tripe, and you know it.”

            Curt grimaced.  “C’mon, don’t start this shit when I’m sick.  My head hurts enough already without having to listen to this crap.”

            “I’ll only go easy on you if you promise you’ll do the concert.”

            “I can’t promise that.  I’m not even in a legally binding state of mind!”

            “That doesn’t make any sense, Curt.”

            Curt sighed.  “Look, just…I’m sure there’s laws against asking a man this sick to make binding promises.  Or if there aren’t, there should be.”  He shook his head.  “And I can’t say what Arthur wants to do for New Year’s Eve.  I don’t wanna wreck it if he’s got plans.”

            “I’d think your little boy already wrecked them.”

            “Yeah, probably, but we could always leave him with my manager for a night.  She’s got a kid his age, you know?”  Curt frowned, trying to order his thoughts.  It was harder than he’d have expected.  “I’ll talk to her about it, too.  Though I think I already know what she’ll say.”

            “I’m sure so,” Tommy agreed.

            “But, hey, look, supposing I do agree.  We wouldn’t just be performing your new shit, right?”

            “It’s not shit.”

            “Yeah, it is.”

            An angry exhalation came through the phone line.  “I was thinking of an assortment of my new songs, your new songs, and our numbers from the ‘70s.  But now you’re making me want to do only my new songs.”

            Curt chuckled.  “Well, I’m not gonna do it if you’re gonna expect me to know your new shit.  But if we’d perform our old numbers…that does sound like a lot of fun.  I won’t promise anything, but I’ll think about it.”

            “Think fast.  If I can’t make the offer to the network by Monday, it might be too late.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”  Curt was struck by a sudden thought, and started laughing.

            “What the bloody hell is so funny?”

            “I just thought, if we were gonna do a mix like that, you could come dressed in half of your new look, and half of your old look, and only face one way when doing the new numbers, and the other way doing the old ones,” Curt told him, still chuckling.

            “You must _really_ be sick.”

            “C’mon, you can’t say you don’t miss it.  You wouldn’t wear all those sequins if you didn’t miss the glitter.”

            “A few orderly sequins on my clothes are very different from glitter eye make-up.”

            Curt just laughed.

            “Even if I did miss it—and I don’t!—it would look absurd to do a cut down the middle affair like you’re suggesting.  Sounds like an eerie harlequin.”

            “You’ve been pretty clownish in the past,” Curt chuckled.

            “Maybe this offer was a mistake.”

            “That’s something that’s always pissed me off about you,” Curt said.  “You can dish out the insults all day long, but you can’t take ‘em worth shit.”

            “I haven’t said anything to offend you today, particularly nothing to compare with calling me a clown!”  In the pause that followed, there was a slight click on the line.  “If you can’t take my offer seriously, then just forget I said anything!”

            “Oh!”

            “What the…?” Tommy asked, though it was half-obscured by the sound of Arthur hanging up the phone in the other room.

            “I think Arthur wanted to make a phone call,” Curt chuckled.  “Shit, now he’s gonna think you’re trying to take me away from him.”

            Tommy sighed.  “I don’t understand you.  I’ll grant that he’s very pretty, but he’s utterly dull.  And he dresses like his mum buys all his clothes.”

            “Yeah.  I keep trying to get him to dress better, but every time I turn my back, he’s bought something boring as shit.  At least he’s grown his hair back out.  Though he still gels it back whenever he’s going out.  The ‘80s have really beaten the shit out of him.  If you’d seen him back in ’74, though…you’d never forget the sight!”

            “I’ve tried my best to forget 1974 even took place.”

            Curt shrugged.  “If I didn’t have such a good memory in the middle of it, I probably would, too,” he said, even as the bedroom door opened, and a tentative Arthur peeked around into the room.  “I should go,” Curt told Tommy.  “I have a lot of explaining to do.”

            “Too bad I can’t listen in.  I bet that’d be good for a laugh.”

            “Yeah, up yours.”  Tommy was laughing as Curt hung up the phone.

            Arthur came into the room, and sat down on the side of the bed.  “Curt…uh…what—what’s goin’ on?” he asked, his voice trembling a bit.  “I…I wasn’t tryin’ to pry…”

            “I know,” Curt assured him, smiling as he patted Arthur’s hand.  “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

            “How can I not worry?  What offer did he make?”

            “He’s got a live concert booked on TV for New Year’s, and the network’s been having second thoughts since his latest album bombed like the shit it is.  So he thought if I joined him on stage, maybe they wouldn’t cancel it.”

            “Wow.  Are you goin’ to?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I dunno.  Do you want me to?”

            Arthur smiled that uncertain, uncomfortable smile of his.  That always made Curt feel guilty somehow, though he knew it shouldn’t.  “I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I love the idea of you performin’ live on television.  It’s been a long time since that happened.  And you ‘aven’t had a New Year’s Eve concert since 1979, so that’d be lovely, too, but…”  He bit his lip, and didn’t continue his thought.

            Curt leaned in closer to give Arthur a kiss.  “Performing with him again wouldn’t make me change my mind about how I feel, okay?  I promise.”  Even if it did, Shannon would literally kill him if he tried to horn in on her marriage.  “But if it’d make you uncomfortable, I don’t have to do it.”

            “No, you are not doin’ that to me,” Arthur insisted.  “If you decide not to do it, it’s got to be because _you_ don’t want to.  You don’t get to blame it on me.”

            Curt sighed, leaning back against the pillows again.  “I don’t know what I want.  I doubt I’d know even if my head _didn’t_ feel like used gum.”  He shook his head as Arthur chuckled at the simile.  “Honestly, what do you want?” Curt asked.  “Do you want me to do it or not?”

            “I don’t know what I want, either,” Arthur said.  “It’s too much to take in all at once.  I’m still tryin’ to adjust to the whole idea of you ‘aving a son.”

            “You and me both,” Curt sighed.  “Well, we’ve got a couple of days to think about it.  But he wants to call the network with the idea on Monday, so…”

            “He could always stall by suggestin’ it to them without your approval,” Arthur said.  “As if he hadn’t talked to you about it.”

            “Yeah, that’s true.  That could buy us a few more days to think.”  Curt smiled.  “If I haven’t come to a decision by Monday, I’ll tell him to do that.”  They sat there in silence for a few minutes.  “So, who were you trying to call?” Curt asked.

            “I thought I’d see if Alicia’d finished gettin’ the paperwork for Mick to transfer into her son’s school.”

            “Don’t worry about that,” Curt chuckled.  “No way will she fail to let us know when she needs us to do something.”

            Arthur nodded, then smiled awkwardly.  “Honestly, I didn’t have much else to do.  I need to be workin’ on my article…”

            “Go on, then.  I’m not likely to get any more sleep after that phone call.  Just leave the door open so we can hear it if the kid starts breaking anything.”

            Arthur kissed him, then turned on his computer.  Curt watched him for a few minutes as Arthur began knuckling down to his work, which largely seemed to consist of a whole lot of typing.  As he watched, he kept hearing Tommy’s words over and over in his head:  “I’ll grant that he’s very pretty, but he’s utterly dull.”

            As much as he’d wanted to, Curt hadn’t been able to argue with that.  He’d focused on the clothes, because they were easy to talk about.  But it wasn’t that he agreed that Arthur was dull!  Was it?  It couldn’t be that.  Surely it couldn’t be that.  Yes, he was very dutiful and obedient to society’s little rules, but that was just because he was English, right?  Even Brian had turned around and become a good little zombie by becoming Tommy Stone.  It was just an English thing to do what you were told.  So that didn’t make Arthur dull.

            Besides, they had lots of fun together…

            …though most of it was sex.

            They’d been together almost four years now, but it was hard for Curt to come up with anything concrete that they really had in common, other than music and sex.  They liked a lot of the same movies and TV shows, sure, but…was that enough?  Arthur seemed to find most of Curt’s games boring, but that _Wizardry_ thing he liked to play on his computer literally put Curt to sleep.

            What did normal people look for in a romance, anyway?  Curt had seen lots of movies with love stories, but usually it boiled down to ‘someone hot to have sex with’ and didn’t go much further than that.  One of them usually had consumption or a jealous spouse or got kidnapped by the bad guy or something anyway.

            Maybe he should start reading those romance advice columns in the paper, see if they ever said what you were actually supposed to look for in a lover other than a sexual thrill…


	17. Chapter 17

            Arthur hadn’t resumed working on his story for more than an hour or two before Mick came into the room and loudly announced that he was bored and wanted to play.  Considering that the boy had been playing games all day, Arthur was quite perplexed by the announcement.

            “With your G.I. Joes?” Curt asked.

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Well, go get ‘em,” Curt said.  “I’ll play with you, as long as you don’t get too close.”

            Mick ran out of the room again.  For such a small child, he could certainly make a lot of noise!  When he returned, he had two of his tiny Action Man figures clutched in one fist, and was dragging the teddy bear that Alicia had brought him in his other hand, its head and arms bouncing along the ground.  It was an expensive, jointed bear—hardly appropriate for sleeping with, considering how stiff it was—and Arthur felt Mick shouldn’t be abusing it like that, but he didn’t dare say so.  Besides, he was curious how it was going to feature in the boy’s game.

            The boy climbed up onto the bed, and tossed one of the figures to Curt.  “That’s Hercules,” he said, “and this is Jason.”  Mick waved his own figure proudly.  “And _this_ —” he went on, hefting the teddy bear into the space between them, “—is Talos the bronze giant!”

            “Where’s Hylas?” Curt asked.

            “Who cares?  He’s gonna get crushed by Talos any second now,” Mick answered.

            “Hercules would care.”

            Mick just shrugged, and started dictating how Jason and Hercules should fight the strangely fluffy giant.  Arthur was fighting not to laugh at Curt’s continued insistence that Hylas needed to be involved.  Mick surely didn’t have any idea that in the original story Hercules and Hylas were lovers, but _Freedoms_ had seen to it that Curt and Arthur were both very much aware of all of the most important pre-modern gay couples, even though many of them were fictional, and one or both partners—whether real or fictional—had usually met grisly ends.

            Arthur did his best to work on his article, but it was hard to concentrate on his rather boring writing with Curt and Mick shouting as their five inch heroes fought against the foot and a half tall teddy bear.  Of course, Curt kept having Hercules call out instructions to the unrepresented Hylas, sometimes putting so much emotion into his voice that it made him start coughing.  For someone with no experience being around children, Curt certainly seemed to be making a good job of it.

            Wait, _did_ he have experience with children?  He was the youngest of three, so he hadn’t had any younger siblings, but…perhaps he had spent time with girlfriends who had children already?  Curt hadn’t been terribly picky about his girlfriends when he was going through his worst periods of drug dependency, after all.  Arthur wanted to ask if he’d actually been around children before, but he also worried that maybe it would be crossing a boundary and prying into something that wasn’t really any of his business…

            Arthur’s contemplations were cut short abruptly as Mick let out a triumphant cry.  “We did it!” he shouted.  “The bronze giant is no more!”

            “So now what?” Curt asked.

            “Now Hercules has to go search the island over and over again looking for Hylas,” Mick said, in an authoritative tone that seemed quite comical coming from a seven year old addressing his forty year old father, “and Jason and the others are going to sail off to Colchis after Hera tells them that Hercules can’t sail with them any further.”  He paused for a few seconds.  “Of course, that’s just the movie.  In the real story, they fight Talos on the way back from Colchis, and it’s actually Medea that defeats him.”

            “Which do you like better?” Curt asked.

            “Well, the movie’s more fun,” Mick said.  “Gramma Ursula let me watch it sometimes.  I like _Clash of the Titans_ better, but she said something at the beginning wasn’t suitable for kids, so she won’t let me watch it.”

            Curt laughed.  “Yeah, that’d be the tits.  Anyway, it’s not a big deal.  You can watch it whenever you want.”

            “Do you have it on tape?!” Mick asked, with a creaking of bedsprings.  Arthur had a sinking feeling that if he glanced over his shoulder, he’d see Mick standing on the bed again.  At least he wasn’t wearing shoes today…

            “I don’t think we do, do we?” Curt asked.

            “ _Clash of the Titans_?  I think we taped it when it was on the telly,” Arthur said, glancing over his shoulder at his lover.  And, as Arthur had surmised, Mick _was_ standing on the bed, very near to where Curt was sitting.  “It’ll have commercials, but it’s better than nothing.”  If Arthur’s memory wasn’t failing him, they had taped it because Curt thought Harry Hamlin looked sexy in a tunic, a thought which Arthur neither liked nor agreed with.

            “Might be able to buy a copy,” Curt mused.  “Or rent one.”

            “Rentin’s not a very good option if he’ll want to watch it a lot,” Arthur said, shaking his head as he turned his chair to face the bed.  He’d heard horror stories from the other patrons at the rental places, of being forced to rent their child’s favourite movie over and over and over again.  “Do you want _Jason and the Argonauts_ , too?” he added, glancing at Mick.

            The boy nodded eagerly.  “Do you have it?”

            “We do, don’t we?” Curt asked.  “I seem to remember watching it without renting it first.”

            “Yeah, it was a source for one of my stories,” Arthur reminded him.  It was a story about the ways in which Hollywood ignored, re-wrote and otherwise marginalized historical and literary homosexuality.  “I returned most of the tapes they gave me for the story, but that was one of the few that was actually a pleasant viewin’ experience, so we kept it.”

            “Can we watch it now?!” Mick asked, jumping up and down on the bed.

            “Only if you stop jumpin’ on our bed,” Arthur said sternly.

            The boy stopped immediately, and beamed an innocent smile at him.

            “Which one do you want to watch?”

            “Both!”

            Arthur sighed.  “Can’t watch both at the same time.  Not unless you want to move this telly into the other room.”

            Mick giggled.  “ _Jason_ first, then _Clash_ after.  Is that okay?”

            “Should be fine,” Arthur agreed.  “Unless your father will feel lonely that you’re not in here keepin’ him company…?”

            Curt glared at him, but did his best to stifle it when Mick turned to look at him.  “I could use the nap,” Curt assured the boy.

            “Yay!” Mick jumped down off the bed and ran off towards the living room.

            “He’s adjustin’ fast,” Arthur sighed, getting up.  He collected the toys the boy had left behind on the bed.

            “Kids are like that,” Curt said.  “You gonna stay in there with him?”

            “I still have a lot of work to do,” Arthur replied, “unless you’d find me bein’ in here distracting?”

            Curt laughed.  “I think I can rest better if you’re in here.”

            Arthur smiled, and kissed him briefly, before following Mick into the other room.  After returning the child’s toys, he started scanning the shelves of video cassettes for the one with _Jason and the Argonauts_.  Finding it, he glanced over at Mick as he was putting it in the VCR.  “Is it the myths you like, or the chap who made the movies?” he asked.

            “Are they made by the same person?” Mick asked, looking at him with wide eyes.  “All the people in the movies are different…”

            “Yes, but the special effects—all those monsters—they’re by the same person.”

            “Oh!  I like the monsters,” Mick said, grinning in a way that was surprisingly like his father.  “Especially Talos and the skeletons.  And Pegasus.”

            “The skeletons _are_ good, aren’t they?” Arthur agreed.  “I think that’s my favourite part.”

            “Yeah, but they killed one of the Gemini and they shouldn’t have.  He dies later and in a totally different way,” Mick announced, with a comically exaggerated frown.

            “So it _is_ the myths you like, then?” Arthur concluded.  “How’d you get an interest in Greek mythology?”

            “Gramma Ursula gave me this great book about it!” Mick said, returning to an enthusiastic smile.  “It’s my favourite book ever!  There’s all these cool stories about heroes and monsters and gods—and it’s just totally cool!  There’s all these funny pictures, too.  I’ve read it over and over again!”

            “Sounds very exciting,” Arthur agreed, as the movie started up.  “You’ll have to show it to me sometime.”

            “Yeah!”  Mick’s happy grin was both entirely like Curt’s, and entirely unlike it:  Arthur had never seen anything so innocent within a hundred yards of Curt’s face.  But that sparkling excitement in his eyes was identical to the joy in Curt’s eyes when he was really into playing his music.

            Arthur stayed in the living room for a few minutes, to make sure Mick was going to be content to sit relatively still and watch the movie—he seemed to be bouncing up and down a bit, but he didn’t look like he was going to go tearing about the room—then returned to the bedroom, sitting down in front of his computer.  Before he started working on his article, though, he turned to look at Curt.

            “Do you…have you been around kids before?” he asked.

            Curt chuckled.  “Sure, some.  I mean, there were always rugrats around at the trailer park.  White trash breed like rabbits.”

            “Curt, could you please not refer to your own origins as ‘trash’?  It’s unsettlin’, to say the least.”

            Curt shrugged.  “Not sure what else I could call them.  Anyway, I’ve sometimes been around other kids, too.  I mean, like Tee.  She was just a little kid when I met her, and we got on great.”

            “But Teresa’s a girl…”

            “And she acted like a boy.”  Curt laughed.  “Actually, until Emilio called her ‘Teresa,’ I thought she _was_ a boy.  Even then I thought maybe it was a boy’s name in Mexico or something.”

            Arthur laughed.  “Hard to picture that,” he said.  More because he knew what Teresa Garcia looked like as an adult than for any other reason.  Though neither of them had seen her since she moved to Paris with her latest girlfriend.  The last Arthur had heard of her was a brief article in _Rolling Stone_ about the French-language album she put out last year.

            A giddy laugh from the living room distracted Arthur from his thoughts.  Then he looked back at Curt and smiled.  “Seein’ how much he looks like you makes me wonder what you were like at his age,” he commented.

            Curt looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.  “Don’t really remember,” he admitted.  “That would have been…shit, now I feel old,” he grumbled, sinking back down into the bed.

            Arthur laughed.  Curt was Mick’s age during the middle of the 1950s…  “Did you like playing cowboys and Indians, and watchin’ Westerns on the telly?” Arthur speculated.  That seemed like it was one of the most popular trends among American boys of the 1950s.

            Curt laughed bitterly.  “We didn’t have a television until I was almost twelve.  And that was only ‘cause my uncle found one in the dump that still worked.”

            “I’m sorry.”  Once again, Arthur was starting to feel as though he had a far more privileged background than he actually did, just because his family hadn’t been dirt poor.  “Wait, if your parents were so broke, how could they have paid for the electroshock treatments?”  Eighteen months of a hospital procedure had to be devilishly expensive.

            “Beats the shit outta me.  Maybe the psycho doctor did it for free ‘cause he got his kicks outta torturing people.”

            Arthur bit his lip uncomfortably.  What idiocy had made him bring the subject up in the first place?!  “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said anything.”

            Curt sighed.  “It’s fine; don’t worry about it.  It was a long time ago.  That fucker’s probably long dead.”

            After an unpleasant silence, Arthur cleared his throat, and turned back to his computer.  “I’ll just get back to work before I say anything else stupid,” he announced.  Curt chuckled, but didn’t answer.

            Perhaps it was only the embarrassment motivating him, but Arthur found that he was progressing through his article with surprising speed.  Over the next half hour or so, he got more accomplished than he had in the entire time since the repaired computer had been returned to the flat.  So it wasn’t as much of a problem for him when he heard the front door open.

            “Bloody Alicia needs to start ringin’ the bell first,” Arthur grumbled, as he saved his work.  “I’ll go see what she wants,” he told Curt, as he headed out of the bedroom.

            By the time Arthur got there, Alicia’s son had joined Mick on the couch, and they were both watching the movie raptly.  Alicia was peering at the screen from behind the couch.  “What on earth are you letting this boy watch?” she asked, looking at Arthur suspiciously as he approached her.

            “ _Jason and the Argonauts_ ,” he sighed.  “It’s a classic adventure movie from the ‘60s.  Same guy who did all the Sinbad movies.”

            “Hmm.”  She looked back at the movie as if she thought it was going to contaminate her son.

            “Did you just drop by for a visit, or is something goin’ on?” Arthur asked, eying the folder she was holding in her hands.

            “Curt needs to sign some paperwork,” Alicia said, looking back at him.  “He _is_ here, isn’t he?”

            “Yeah, he’s restin’ still.”

            Alicia scowled.  “He has an appearance booked late next week.  I was hoping he would have recovered already, despite the relapse.”  She shook her head.  “I’d better let them know there’s the possibility he might not be able to perform.  Can’t have him risk his voice by singing when he’s still sick.”  She sighed deeply, then headed off to the bedroom without another word.

            “Eh?  Wait, he’s still in his pyjamas!” Arthur exclaimed, running after her.

            “And he performs on stage without a shirt on,” Alicia countered, without even slowing down.  “Believe me, he’s got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

            Curt was still in the process of sitting up when Alicia entered the bedroom, with Arthur right on her heels.  “What the fuck?” Curt grumbled.  “Can’t I get any peace?”

            Alicia grimaced.  “After making me run around and deal with _your_ mistake, don’t you dare sass me about it when I expect you to go to the insurmountable effort of signing a few pieces of paper!”

            “What mistake?”

            “The one in there watching television.”

            Curt avoided her gaze.  “What am I signing?” he asked, his voice more of a growl than anything else.

            “There are two separate forms,” Alicia told him, pulling up Arthur’s desk chair next to the bed so she could sit down.  With a sigh, Arthur went and sat on his own side of the bed, wanting to have a look at the paperwork himself.  Alicia set the tray stand above Curt’s lap, and then laid out a lengthy form filled with text.  There were already two signatures at the bottom.  “This one is the custody form.  It’s to inform the government that you’re taking over primary custody of the boy.  The mother’s already signed it, and the lawyer’s signed as a witness.  You need to sign it, and fill out additional information on the second page.  Your address, Social Security number, next of kin, and emergency contacts.”

            “Next of kin?” Curt repeated, looking at her with concern.  “I can put Arthur for that, right?”

            “Of course not,” Alicia snapped, scowling at him.  “He’s not your blood relation, and you’re not married to him.  You have to put a blood relation or someone else legally bound to you as next of kin.  That’s how it works.”

            “Can I leave it blank, then?”

            “I’m not sure; that might constitute legal fraud.  You do still have living relatives.”

            Curt shrugged.  “I’m not so sure the government knows that.  I was declared legally dead as a kid, you know?”

            Alicia sighed.  “All right, just leave it blank for now.  I’ll have a word with your lawyers, and see what they say.  If I need an address, I’ll look it up and fill it in myself.”

            Curt nodded, and started filling in the rest of the information, listing Arthur first on the emergency contact list, and Alicia second.

            “Legally, how does this impact us lookin’ after the boy?” Arthur asked.

            “According to the letter of the law, Curt was already obliged to provide assistance for the boy’s upbringing, since his signature is on the birth certificate,” Alicia said.  “Since that signature is a forgery, however, no one would genuinely expect him to live up to that legal obligation.  This changes that, and in fact releases the mother from most of her own obligations.  Most importantly, it means that no one can take the child away from Curt just because of his sexual orientation.  Now they would have to prove abuse or neglect before the boy could be removed from his custody.”

            “Yeah, but…what about me?” Arthur asked.  “Will I be less likely to be accused of things?”

            “Nothing is going to stop people from accusing you both of corrupting that boy.  Not unless you both spontaneously decide to become exclusively heterosexual,” Alicia sighed.  “However, this should provide _some_ legal protection.  But you have no more rights as a step-father than you would if you had moved in with the boy’s mother.  A boyfriend is still just a boyfriend.  Tolerated, but without legal custody rights.”

            “I don’t want custody rights,” Arthur assured her.  “I just don’t want people thinkin’ I’m sexually abusing a little kid.”

            “Some people are going to think that no matter what.  But if the police try to accuse you of it without proof, you should have some legal protection.”

            Arthur was not entirely comforted by that, but he knew he wasn’t going to get anything better, so he didn’t press.  He just watched as Curt finished filling in the information, glanced over the copious legal text on the form, and then signed his name.  Once finished with the form, Curt handed it back to Alicia, who put it back in the folder.  She took out a second form, with far more spaces for information, and much less text.

            “This is the paperwork to have Mick attend Ken’s school starting next semester,” Alicia told him.  “They need it back by Monday if they’re going to process him as a new student.  And don’t bitch about it, because normally they wouldn’t take a student this late, particularly one from such a poor public school.  I had to pull a lot of strings and promise a lot of favours to get them to agree to take him.”

            Curt nodded, looking at the paperwork in front of him with a slightly overwhelmed face.  “Uh…how much is it gonna cost?”

            “You can afford it,” Alicia told him.  “Believe me, I know your financial standing better than you do.  Besides, you’re about to make a lot of money.  I checked in at a record store on my way to pick Ken up, and they’ve already sold half their copies of the new album.  Add to that the interview fees, and the tour this summer, and you’ll be sitting on a much bigger egg than you were at the beginning of the year.”

            “Tour?” Arthur repeated.  “What tour?”  Nothing had been said of a tour for this new album.

            “Oh, Curt didn’t tell you?” Alicia asked, looking at him with surprise, even as Curt started filling out the paperwork for the school.  “The contract with the label stipulates that if the record sells a certain number of copies in a set amount of time, then he’ll go on tour to promote it further.  If release day sales are that good, it’s guaranteed he’ll make the cut for the tour.”

            “What’s gonna happen to Mick while Curt’s out on tour?”

            Alicia frowned slightly.  “I suppose he could spend some of that time at summer camp, or staying with me…though I’m not sure Tim will like the idea of cancelling our trip to Europe…but a rock tour is no place for a child…”

            “We can worry about the tour _if_ it happens,” Curt interjected.  “I’m not required to do it, even if it does become an option.”

            “You’d be crazy to refuse it,” Alicia countered, scowling at him.

            “Especially considerin’ how much you love doin’ live performances,” Arthur added.  The tour for the ‘Make a Wish’ album had been a wonderful thrill for both of them…

            Curt shrugged.  “Just pointing out that refusing is an option.”  He frowned down at the paperwork.  “This is gonna take me forever to fill out…”

            “Well, I’m not leaving without it,” Alicia announced.  “So get back to work!”


	18. Chapter 18

            By Monday morning, Curt was insisting that he was entirely better.  Arthur reminded him that he had said that before, only to relapse.  Therefore, he was to remain in bed resting for at least another 24 hours, even if Arthur had to strap him to the bed.  Naturally, that just led Curt to make a number of bondage jokes, and in the process of laughing at them, he had another coughing fit, proving that he wasn’t quite so recovered as he thought he was.

            Since Arthur had finished the first draft of his article on Sunday afternoon, he spent Monday morning in the living room with Mick.  Alicia had left a long list of everything Ken had learned so far at his school, and Mick’s school hadn’t covered most of it, so Arthur was trying to tutor him in everything he’d need to know when the new term started.  Mick fidgeted excessively during the lessons, but he seemed quick enough at picking up the material that Arthur wasn’t too worried about his prospects at the new school.

            The post arrived just before lunch, and it included an airmail letter that Arthur had to sign for.  Of course, he was desperately curious to see what was in the letter, so he told Mick to go ahead and play games until lunchtime.  Sitting down at the dining room table, Arthur set aside all the other envelopes so he could open his letter from London.  It wasn’t terribly long, and most of it was Malcolm telling him how things were going at his nightclub.  Towards the end, though, Arthur was delighted to read that Malcolm was finally giving in to Arthur’s cajoling, and was going to talk to the other three about re-forming the Flaming Creatures.  Even if the band didn’t get back together, so long as they could be friends again, that would make Arthur happy.  The early days that he had lived with them had been one of the happiest times of his life, and he hated to think that they were still quarrelling after all this time.

            Only once he was done with Malcolm’s letter did Arthur take a look at the rest of the post.  A couple of bills, a few advertisements, and some business correspondence for Curt.  But also, tucked in along with the others, was a letter for Arthur, from that little newspaper in Michigan.  Opening the envelope, he pulled out a piece of slightly yellowed newsprint, and a short letter from the woman he had spoken to on the phone.  “This seems to be the piece you wanted,” she wrote.  “I was able to find an old copy that it was all right to cut up, so it didn’t have to be a photocopy after all.  What a curious story this all makes!  Is it all right if I do a write-up for the paper about it?”  He’d have to ask Curt about it, but Arthur was pretty sure the answer to that question was a resounding ‘no.’

            Arthur turned his attention to the piece of twenty-five year old newsprint, which he read with fascination.  “Curtis Elijah Wilde, gone to the Lord at 15 years of age.  After two years of fighting with mental illness, young Curtis wandered away from his family’s mobile home during last week’s blizzard.  Despite the frantic searches of local police and volunteers, no trace of the boy's body has been found.  The police reluctantly announced that he must have walked out onto a thin patch of ice.  When the ice thaws, police plan to drag the lake in search of the body.  The community is asked to donate whatever they can to the Wilde family in the wake of this tragedy so that a proper memorial can be raised.  An offering box will be made available during the funeral this Saturday.”

            Arthur wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry that Curt’s false obituary read more like a news story than a proper obit, and included his family begging for money.  After composing himself again, Arthur took the paper into the bedroom.  Curt looked at him curiously as he approached.  “You look proud of yourself,” he commented.

            “I got something for you,” Arthur told him, sitting down on the bed beside him.  “But it didn’t seem like it’d be a good Christmas present,” he added, handing the obituary to Curt.  Arthur bit his lip as he watched Curt’s face.  A small smile tinged with sadness spread across the lips that Arthur had kissed so many times.  “Elijah?” Arthur asked, fighting a laugh.

            “Beats me,” Curt shrugged.  “I never knew I had a middle name ‘till I first saw my obituary.  Maybe they were trying to sound classy.”

            “You dropped the final ‘e’,” Arthur added.

            “Yeah, that was my idea of changing my identity,” Curt laughed.  “Presumably they played that up, used it as an excuse to keep claiming their son was really dead, even after I got famous.”

            “If they legally declared you dead, how have you been payin’ taxes and everything all these years?” Arthur asked.  Having helped Curt get his papers in order to send off to the accountants for the last three years, Arthur knew very well that Curt absolutely _was_ paying his taxes.

            Curt let out such a loud laugh that it was practically a guffaw.  “My first manager did something.  I’ve never known quite what.  Might have been just telling the government that no, I really wasn’t dead, or maybe she set up a whole new identity for me.”  He shrugged.  “It was the ‘60s, so no one really cared much.”

            “Well, was it the same Social Security number?” Arthur asked.

            “You gotta be fucking kidding.  I didn’t even have one yet,” Curt told him, shaking his head.  “So maybe as far as the government cared, I didn’t really exist in the first place.  I don’t know.  No one was gonna care enough to look through all those tedious records to see if I existed or if I was alive or dead, yeah?”

            “And your family never tried to contact you after they found out you were really alive?”

            “Once,” Curt said, putting the obituary down on the bedside table.  “Not long after I got out of jail, I got a telegram from my brother.  It said ‘Pop’s dead.  Come to the funeral.’  Nothing else.”

            “What happened?”

            “The guys who send the telegrams wouldn’t let me send a picture of me flipping him the bird as a telegram,” Curt sighed, “and they didn’t like sending one that said ‘Fuck you,’ either.  In the end, I stormed outta there and got drunk instead of doing anything.”  He shrugged.  “About a week later, I got another telegram calling me a piece of shit.  Dunno why they’d let him swear in a telegram, but not me.”

            Arthur bit his lip uncomfortably.  Would it be prying to ask further?  Curt had never mentioned his father being dead before…

            “What?”  Curt was looking at him with narrowed eyes.  “What’s that look about?”

            “I…I was just wonderin’…if it’d be rude to ask how your father died…”

            Curt chuckled.  “I got my hands on _his_ obituary, too,” he said, “and it claimed it was a hunting accident.  I’d say there were good odds it was no accident, but no one cared enough to admit it was murder.”

            “Shite!  Shouldn’t you have done something if—”

            “Arthur, the man had no qualms about torturing me for a year and a half, while letting my brother get off without a word of reproach.  He was filth of the worst kind.  Believe me, if he was murdered, he deserved it.  Even if he _wasn’t_ murdered, he still _deserved_ to be murdered.”  Maybe Arthur’s discomfort was showing on his face, because Curt pulled him close, hugging him against his chest.  “You’re too sensitive,” he said.  “Would you be upset if you found out _your_ old man was dead?”

            “Not bloody likely.”

            “See?  Same thing.”

            Arthur chuckled weakly.  “I guess so, but…if my father’s dead, it was probably a heart attack, not murder.”

            “Well, yeah, but how often is your father around loaded guns?”

            “Roughly never,” Arthur laughed.

            “Mine routinely went out hunting, and people die every year at that,” Curt said, shaking his head.  “I know he’d killed at least one person himself.”  He laughed grimly.  “I was afraid to eat meat for two weeks after that happened.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, most of the meat on our table was stuff my father had shot,” Curt explained, “so it only seemed logical that if he’d shot a person, then we’d be eating that, too.”

            Arthur laughed, though he knew he shouldn’t.  “How old were you?”

            “I guess I was about eight?  Maybe a bit younger.”

            “About Mick’s age, then.”

            “Yeah.”  Curt glanced at the open door to the living room, then shook his head sadly.  “I just hope Mick’s not gonna look back on me the way I look back on _my_ old man…”

            “He won’t,” Arthur assured him, before giving him a passionate kiss.


	19. Chapter 19

            Maybe he _had_ been a little giddy.  But how often did a man who wasn’t in the movie business get nominated for an Academy Award?  Curt had been sure he had the right to be a little over-excited.  Alicia had insisted that Arthur shouldn’t go with him:  Curt should go stag, so as not to call attention to his sexuality.  Of course, Curt had said ‘fuck that’ and taken Arthur with him anyway.  The song had originally been written about him, after all!  Besides, Curt had been sure he wouldn’t win.

            Only then, bizarrely enough, he _did_ win.

            It had probably been a mistake to give Arthur a kiss before heading up to the stage to accept the award, but Curt had been excited, and hadn’t been thinking clearly.  The audience watching the show would probably have been just as shocked by his appearance as they were by the kiss, anyway:  while Arthur was wearing a rented tux like most of the other men in the crowd, Curt had come wearing a bronze-colored leather suit, one of the nicest of his surviving outfits from the ‘70s, and of course his hair was hanging loose, because he never pulled it back when he was in public unless he was ‘incognito.’  He hadn’t been expecting to win, so he hadn’t prepared a speech, and ended up rambling a bit about how he hoped it wasn’t a “pity award” because they thought his career had self-destructed.  And of course he’d had more to say to and about Arthur than he should have, because how could he not?

            Despite how very untraditional everything was, the audience had applauded politely when Curt was done talking.  Hell, some of them probably meant it:  Hollywood wasn’t exactly short on gay men, even if most of them weren’t ready to admit who they really were.

            After the ceremony was over, they had gone to an after-party at the home of a very popular movie star who was also bisexual.  That had been great, until Curt and Arthur got separated.  Not that Curt was one of those clingy types who couldn’t stand being apart from his boyfriend, but he was worried that someone might try to take Arthur away from him.  There were probably a lot of gay movie stars who were better-looking and younger than he was, after all!

            The last thing Curt had expected was to go around a corner, looking for Arthur, and end up staring into the intense and overly familiar eyes that he hadn’t seen up close and in person since they got in that horrible fight back in January of 1974.  Maybe it was the shock that made his mouth go dry, and set his fingers clenching up mindlessly.

            Brian—no, ‘Tommy’—gave him a cold, grimace-like smile.  “I see you gave my pin away,” he said coldly.  Of course, Arthur was wearing the pin on the lapel of his tux, broadcasting it to the whole world when the cameras turned onto Curt in the audience at the award ceremony.  “He’s more important to you than I was?”

            Curt’s mouth opened a little, but nothing came out of it.  What was he supposed to say to that?  There were any number of good counters, but he wasn’t sure he could actually produce any of them.

            The smile became more genuine, and Tommy laughed, shaking his head.  “I’m joking,” he said, in Brian’s softest, sweetest tones.  “I stole it from Jack Fairy anyway; what right would I have to dictate what you do with it?”

            Curt felt like he could breathe again for the first time in ages.  “That much I knew,” he admitted.

            “You knew what?”

            “That you took it from Jack.  He told me as soon as he saw I had it.”

            Tommy shook his head.  “And he didn’t want it back?”

            Curt shrugged.  “If he did, he didn’t say so.”

            “I suppose that’s typical of him.”

            Curt glanced around.  It looked like Tommy was alone at the party.  “What, you didn’t bring your goons with you?”

            Tommy sighed deeply.  “They were not mine.  They worked for the committee, and I never approved of their methods.”

            “Then why the fuck didn’t you stop them?”

            “How?” Tommy countered.  “They were part of a particularly vicious branch of the American government, and after they’d been covering up my secret for a while…the longer it was a secret, the worse it was bound to be when it was revealed.  By that point, they needed threaten nothing more than exposing me.  And if they had revealed it themselves, it would have been much worse than when your little boyfriend did it.”  He paused, frowning.  “I still can’t believe Mandy was willing to turn on me like that.”

            “Those goons routinely threatened to send her to jail, sometimes on charges of treason,” Curt pointed out.  “She didn’t have much reason to be loyal.  Especially considering the shitty way you were treating her by the end.”

            Tommy shrugged.  “Perhaps so,” he admitted.  “You know, I was a little surprised neither of you tried to get involved with the other as vengeance on me.”  A small, uncomfortable smile.  “I think…I think I would have liked it if you had.  Finding happiness with each other…”

            Curt shuddered.  “Fuck, no!  I like Mandy a lot, but…sleeping with your wife?  That would have—no, that’s just—no.”

            Tommy laughed.  “Yet you didn’t mind having her join us in bed.”

            “That’s completely different.  And actually, I kind of did.”  Curt had never liked to share.  “I don’t think she was too keen on it, either.”

            “Really?”  From the look on his face, not only had he never noticed, the thought had never even occurred to him.

            They stood there in awkward silence for a minute or two.  “Aren’t you mad at me?” Curt asked.  “I mean, I helped expose you.”

            Tommy laughed again.  “You’re more used to exposing _yourself_.”

            “Lame joke.”

            “I was quite cross at first,” Tommy admitted, with a helpless shrug.  “I lost a lot of my new fans.  But a surprising number of them stayed with me.  And, honestly, I think it may have gained me some new ones.  My new career isn’t dead yet.”  He smiled.  “More importantly, I never intended it to become such a grandiose lie.”

            “What _did_ you intend, then?” Curt asked.  “And don’t give me that bullshit you gave those reporters about wanting a chance to get a fresh start and not fuck it up this time.”

            “But that’s the truth,” Tommy said.  The look in his eyes and the tone in Brian’s voice was so earnest that Curt was having trouble forcing himself even to doubt it, let alone truly disbelieve it.  “I wanted a new career in which I wasn’t immediately going to be labeled as a radical outlier.  The whole reason I picked a name based on my real name was so that it would be easy to spot the truth.  Shannon and I spent a long time talking about it before I filed for the American name change.  The important thing was that I was planning to admit it.  We expected it wouldn’t take long before some reporter realized who I really was, and as soon as I was asked about it, I was going to admit it.  Explain that I just wanted to start over.  Since my name could cause pain to my former fans, we thought it would be believed and accepted by all parties.”

            “So what happened?”

            “Martin Reynolds happened.  He decided I would be the perfect face of the ‘new American popular culture,’ the icon of his pure, conservative ideal.  Once I was roped into that, my past became a threat to them.”

            “Why the fuck would you have agreed to work with a freak like Reynolds in the first place?  And don’t you dare say you wanna fuck him!”

            Tommy laughed.  “I might have fancied him a little, but not like that.  He invited me into the Oval Office, and outlined his grand vision of America’s future.  It sounded perfect, the way he described it then.”  He shook his head.  “It’s gotten less and less perfect every time he’s talked about it since.  But once I was already involved, what could I do but allow myself to be pulled in deeper?  They wouldn’t have simply let me walk away.”

            “So what was all that shit you were spouting about my ilk tainting the whole industry?” Curt countered.  That had stung.  A lot.

            “You rejected my peace offering, _and_ you went and told the world you thought your little reporter was more important to you than I was!  Did you expect me to be grateful?!”

            “That’s not actually what I said…”

            “It’s what you told Teresa Garcia to say.”

            “Of course it is!  I wanted to save face, too!  I couldn’t have told her to explain that he was the hottest guy I’d ever fucked.  That just would have make me look worse.”

            Tommy raised an eyebrow.  “Then what would you say if I asked you who was more important to you?”

            “I think I’d punch you in the face instead of answering,” Curt replied, with a ragged smile.  “I could never answer that.  Not even if I knew what the answer was.”

            Tommy sighed, looking at him with disgust.

            “What?  It’s not like you actually want to get back together with me, so what the fuck does it matter?”

            “It’s the principle of the thing, I suppose.”  An uncomfortable smile.  “I know you think you’re the victim, but I was hurting for a long time, too.”

            “I know.”  Curt tried to smile, but it was probably just as uncomfortable as Tommy’s.  “I heard about how you showed up at the Death of Glitter concert.”

            Tommy looked at him with surprise, then smiled almost shyly.  “Sometimes I wished I had stayed and gone to speak to you afterwards.”

            Curt chuckled.  “I’m glad you didn’t.”  It had been magical the way it was.  Falling back under Brian’s spell was what he had been hoping for back then, but in the long run it would have been the worst thing for him.

            “Are you sure you said that right?”

            Curt couldn’t help laughing at that.  Tommy looked utterly baffled.  Good:  that meant he didn’t really know how Curt and Arthur had first met.  Curt’s loud laughter was only cut off when he heard a warm voice calling his name.

            “Curt!  I’ve been lookin’ all over for you!”  Arthur had come running up from some other part of the room at the sound of Curt’s laughter.  “You won’t believe who I was just talkin’ to…over…there…”  Having reached Curt, Arthur had stopped and was staring at Tommy Stone in stunned disbelief.

            Tommy had smiled tightly.  “So you’re the new boy,” he had said, still using the true voice of Brian Slade.

            “What are you doin’ here?” Arthur had asked, moving closer to Curt almost protectively.

            “I _am_ still a big star,” Tommy had said coldly.  “It’s only natural that I would be invited to a soiree such as this one.”

            “But what’re you doin’ with Curt?”

            Tommy had sighed, shaking his head.  “Did you not read your own article?  We do have something of a history.”

            “Yeah, that’s what’s bothering him,” Curt had laughed.  “C’mon, Arthur, you know you don’t have to be jealous.  You’re a thousand times sexier than he is, and better in bed, too.”

            Tommy had been a bit pissed about the insult—well, he had seen it as an insult, even though it was true—and Arthur had still been a bit jealous, but they had eventually both calmed down.  They hadn’t exactly parted as friends—or even particularly friendly—but by the end of the party, Curt had largely forgiven Tommy for all his shit.

            He wasn’t sure that he’d call Tommy a friend, and he didn’t like thinking about the fact that he was really Brian, but they did get on pretty well now.

            Curt glanced over at the brittle obituary on the bedside table.  If he could go back and change what he had done, so his family and few friends had never thought he was dead, would he?  After you’ve betrayed someone like that, you can’t go back.  That was why he couldn’t have gone to his father’s funeral even if he’d wanted to.

            That was why Brian Slade had had to become Tommy Stone.

            Despite the story spilling his secret, despite that he had come clean in the end, Tommy had never really gone back and embraced his original identity, never had the chance to ask his original fans to forgive him and accept him back.  If he was finally ready to do so, did Curt really have any right to stop him?  Wasn’t it actually cruel of him to interfere?

            Curt picked up the phone, and dialed Tommy’s number.  Unfortunately, it was Shannon that answered.  “I need to talk to Tommy,” Curt told her.  “About the New Year’s concert.”

            There was silence on the other end of the line for about thirty seconds.  “Are you going to accept the offer?” she asked.

            “I thought I’d tell Tommy that.  If I have to say it twice, I might get bored and wander off again.”  As if he had simply ‘wandered off’ back then…

            “I won’t let you hurt him again.”

            “I wasn’t planning on it,” Curt sighed.  “Look, I get it, okay?  I know you’ve always loved him, and you hated that I was fucking him, and all that.  But that was a long time ago, and it's over and done with.  Believe me, I’m not about to trade Arthur for anyone, especially not for someone who tore my heart out and ground it into dust.  I just want to talk to him.  All nice and friendly.”

            There was a loud and irritated exhalation, followed by the sound of the receiver being put down on some hard surface.  Curt could make out receding footsteps for a moment or two, then nothing but silence.  He didn’t hear any approaching footsteps before Tommy picked up and greeted him, so he must have been picking up a different phone.  Which meant if they were talking more than a minute, Shannon would be listening in.

            “You like waiting until the last minute,” Tommy sighed.  “This better be good news.”

            Curt chuckled.  “Basically,” he said.  “I’ve been thinking about it, and it does sound like a good idea.  Give everyone some closure.”

            “Have you been seeing a psychiatrist?”

            “After the last one?  Fuck no!”

            Tommy let out an uncomfortable laugh.  “Sorry.  But talk of ‘closure’ hardly seems natural coming from you.”

            Curt sighed.  “Look, I do have some conditions, okay?”

            “Conditions?” Tommy repeated, about the same time that Curt heard the approaching footsteps that signaled Shannon’s return to the original phone.  “What do you mean by that?”

            “If I’m gonna do this, I want to make sure certain songs are performed, and certain others are off-limits,” Curt told him, trying to pretend he couldn’t hear Shannon breathing as she listened in.  “Some of the songs we did together back in the ‘70s are a bit too…I’ve got too many emotional attachments to them.  I wouldn’t feel comfortable performing them again, especially not with you.”

            Tommy laughed sadly.  “Yes, I feel the same way.  But there are some of your new songs that I don’t want you to perform.”

            “Why do I get the feeling they’re all ones I really want to perform?”

            “They probably are,” Tommy agreed.  “I don’t want you performing anything that’s a love song to your new boyfriend.”

            “Are you that jealous that I never wrote any about you?” Curt asked, trying to keep as much of the laughter as possible out of his voice.

            “I’m not jealous,” Tommy insisted.  The tightness in his voice proved he was, but Curt decided it was better not to say so.  Especially with Shannon listening in.  “It’s just not a tone I’m comfortable with.”

            “Hmmm…not sure I buy that,” Curt laughed, “but how about a compromise?”

            “Compromise?”

            “You don’t want me to perform ‘The Stars Are Falling’ because it’s a love song about Arthur, but how about the ‘Chicken Little’ version?” Curt suggested.  That song was still the one he was most powerfully attached to, of all the songs he had written about Arthur.

            “Not ideal, since everyone knows what it’s really about now, but I suppose I can accept it, in the spirit of compromise.”

            They only spent a little while longer hammering out the plans before Tommy said he needed to contact the network.

            After hanging up the phone, Curt laid back to ponder the possibilities.  A concert on New Year’s Eve, broadcast live on television…

            The last time he’d done a concert for New Year’s Eve, it was 1979, and he hadn’t even been the main act, so he wasn’t on stage when the ball dropped.  Arthur had been in the audience that night, not that the silly fool had let Curt know about it:  they could have rung in the new decade together with mad, passionate sex, but instead Arthur had been in the bar getting drunk, and Curt had been shooting up in his hotel room, both being utterly ignored by the girlfriends who’d gotten them into the concert in the first place.  The venue had been the ballroom of a hotel near Times Square, where clueless-but-rich tourists spent too much money for a night’s rest.

            The venue this time was to be a trendy nightclub that catered to the kind of crowd that Brian would have turned up his nose at back in the ‘70s.  Hardly Curt’s kind of place, but…he’d make it work.  Besides, the crowd was probably going to be a very different one than would usually be in there.

            There were a few questions that would need answering first.  The easiest would be what he was going to wear.  He’d have to find out what Tommy was wearing—no, what was the point of that?  Tommy would wear that same fucking suit he always did, white with sequins.  Well, Curt wasn’t about to dress to match _that_!  He’d just have to pick something hot that would really contrast, without clashing too badly.  Maybe a nice pair of silver pants…Arthur would get a charge out of that.

            Arthur, of course, was one of the other questions.  Where was he going to be during the concert?  Would the television cameras acknowledge his presence in the wings?  If so, he was going to have to be dressed up to match Curt.  Actually, he should be anyway.  Normally, they were both naked by the time midnight actually struck, because it was really hard to stay up that late without getting too horny to wait.  But obviously they couldn’t be doing it at the stroke of  midnight if they were going to be on live television.  Even Curt wouldn’t want to get naked on live television, and he knew Arthur would have palpitations at the very idea.

            The hardest question, though, was the one for which there was absolutely no precedent.  What were they going to do with Mick?  The most sensible answer seemed to be that they could leave him with Alicia, but Curt didn’t much like the idea.  It made him look like a pretty fucking useless parent if he had to dump his kid onto someone else’s lap every time he had to do his work.  But what else could he do?  Even if a seven year old _could_ stay up to midnight, he absolutely shouldn’t, and a live rock concert in a nightclub full of increasingly drunk patrons was hardly a good place for such a young kid.

            Arthur joined him in the bedroom while Curt was still trying to figure it out.  “What do parents usually do with their kids when they go out for New Year’s Eve?” he asked.

            “Oh, so you’ve decided to do the concert after all?” Arthur replied, with a smile.  “I don’t think most parents go out for New Year’s,” he went on, after a moment’s thought.  “It’s more for single people, and couples who don’t have children yet.”

            Curt sighed deeply.  “That’s not what I wanted to hear, Arthur.”

            “Did you want me to lie?”

            “Not as such…”

            “Curt, really, I don’t know any more about this than you do.  In fact, I think I probably know a lot less.”  Arthur shook his head.  “I’m sure we can hire a babysitter.  That’s usually what people do when they’re goin’ out.”

            Curt frowned.  “I don’t know if I want to trust some random teenage girl with my son.”

            Arthur laughed, and stroked his hair.  “Look at you, the dotin’ father already.”

            “I’m not—!”

            “I’m sure you could ask Alicia to look after him,” Arthur went on, cutting him off.  “Doubt she goes out for New Year’s.  And it’s important that he get to be good friends with her son, if they’ll be goin’ to the same school.”

            “Yeah.  But isn’t that…doesn’t it give people a chance to say we shouldn’t be looking after a kid, if we do something like that?”

            “Curt, we’re two men livin’ together as sexual partners.  They won’t bother lookin’ further than that for something to complain about.”

            Curt grimaced.  “Yeah.  But what happens if they take him away while Candi’s locked up?”

            “I think you’d have to ask the solicitor about that.  But I don’t think they can take him away without proof that we’re doin’ something harmful.  And since we’re _not_ doin’ anything harmful, it should be fine.”

            Curt chuckled.  “When did you get so naïve?  I thought you were supposed to be the sensible, cautious one.”

            “Maybe you’re a bad influence,” Arthur suggested, before kissing him passionately.

            Curt pulled him in close, running his fingers through the soft, dark hair.  Tonight was going to be it.  Tonight, he was going to prove he wasn’t sick anymore, so they could finally have sex again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I really fell in love with that idea of a 1979 New Year's Eve concert. I even ended up writing an AU piece where Arthur *did* let Curt know he was there...


	20. Chapter 20

            The lawyer representing Candi called first thing Tuesday morning.  Despite everything he had told her, Candi had refused to accept a plea bargain of any kind, and demanded that he plead ‘not guilty’ when asked.  Instead of entering the plea when asked, he had asked for a recess, so that he and the low-level peon from the DA’s office could speak to the judge in private.  That seemed like a serious departure from the way it was supposed to go—unless Curt’s times in court were the ones that were aberrations—but according to the lawyer, the judge had agreed to it, and so he’d been able to explain the full situation to them.  In that informal—or at least _less_ formal—setting, they had agreed to certain terms.  Once back in the courtroom, the judge had laid out the facts before Candi:  she could plead ‘guilty’ and get five years, with the chance of parole in eighteen months, or she could plead ‘not guilty’ and get ten to twenty years when she was inevitably found to be guilty.  According to the lawyer, Candi hadn’t liked it, and had started crying right there in the courtroom.  Eventually, the lawyer was able to talk her down, and make her understand that there was no way she could get out of serving time, and gained her permission to accept the judge’s bargain.

            Realistically, Candi would have been lucky to get only twenty years if it had gone to trial and someone had found out that she once offered heroin to her seven year old son.  But the fact that she was going to be put away for five years—no matter what the lawyer said, there was no chance she’d make parole—was not going to make Curt’s life any simpler.  Then again, maybe everyone had known, deep down, that he was going to be stuck with Mick for the next eleven years anyway.  That custody form had been hardcore stuff.

            But there was one person who didn’t get it.  And Curt was really the only one who could tell him.

            He sat down on the sofa, and called Mick over to sit next to him.  The boy obeyed, grinning up at him so happily that it made Curt’s stomach ache.

            “I just heard from the lawyer who’s defending your mother,” Curt told him.

            “Is Mom coming home soon?” Mick asked excitedly.

            Shit.  How was he supposed to say this?  How could he just crush the boy’s hopes?  “No, Mick, she isn’t,” Curt said, his voice fighting not to get out past his lips.

            “W—but—when—when _is_ she coming home?”

            “I don’t know,” Curt admitted, shaking his head.  “Maybe in a year and a half.”

            “A year…?  I can’t see Mom again for a whole _year_?!”  Mick’s eyes were already spilling tears before he could even finish choking out the question.

            “No, you can see her,” Curt said, “but you can only visit.”

            Mick tried to rub the tears off his cheeks, but they were replaced as quickly as he could wipe them away.  “Why?  Why can’t she come home?  I want Mom to live here with us!”  Exactly when did Candi moving into Curt’s apartment become part of the deal?  That was the last thing he wanted.

            “She has to…she broke…it’s just complicated,” Curt grumbled.  How the fuck was he supposed to explain going to jail to a little kid?!

            “Is this because of the drugs?” Mick asked, staring at him with big, sad eyes.

            “Oh, you knew what they were?”

            “I’m not _dumb_ , Dad.”

            Curt cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “Look, it’s been a long time since I was a kid, all right?  I don’t remember how much I knew when.”  He sighed.  “But yeah, it’s because she was caught with drugs on her.”

            “Even though she’s my only mom?”

            “How many mothers do you think a kid’s supposed to have?” Curt asked, trying not to laugh, and failing pretty badly.

            Mick leveled an exaggerated frown at him, and punched him in the gut.  It actually hurt a bit.  “It’s not funny!” he screeched.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.  It’s just…now that I’m here and taking care of you…”  Curt stopped, biting his lip.  If he kept pursuing _that_ line of reasoning, Mick was going to blame him for his mother being taken away.  “They can only look at it from an outsider’s view,” Curt tried to explain.  “Drugs can make people do stupid, dangerous things they’d never do if they were sober.  If I hadn’t been here to take care of you, they’d have taken you away from your mom and put you in foster care, and then you’d _really_ never see her again, and she’d be locked up for twenty years, at least.”

            Mick’s tears started coming faster.  “I don’t want to be in foster care,” he whined.

            “And you’re not gonna be, ‘cause I’m gonna look after you,” Curt promised.  “And I’ll take you to see your mom as often as you like.”

            “Every day?”

            “Uh, that’s a little too often.  It’s a long drive to the prison.  I was thinking every weekend.”

            Mick nodded unhappily, and tried to dry his tears.  “I just don’t want Mom to die…” he whimpered.

            “Who said anything about dying?”

            “People die in prison!” Mick shouted.  “I’ve seen movies!”

            “Yeah, movies are not real life, Mick.  Your mom isn’t gonna die in prison.”

            “How would you know?” Mick countered petulantly, sticking out his lower lip in a way that struck Curt as almost comical.

            “If I could survive prison, she can, too.”  At least she’d probably be in slightly less danger from the other inmates…

            Mick scooted away from Curt, staring at him with alarm.  “What were you in jail for?” he asked in a shaking voice.

            “Same thing as your mom.”

            “Oh.”  Mick paused, with an uncertain look on his face.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “But you promise you’ll take me to see her?”

            “I promise.”

            Mick nodded, and tossed his arms around Curt’s neck, crying onto his shoulder.  Curt wasn’t quite sure what to do about it, and just stroked the kid’s back until he cried himself to sleep.  At least from there it was easy to figure out:  he carried the boy into his bedroom and set him down on the bed, then made his way back out again.

            Arthur was in their bedroom when Curt found him and explained what had happened with Mick.  “I’m not surprised he was upset,” Arthur said, shaking his head.  “Losing his mum like that…”

            “Yeah, but Candi was such a rotten mother.  You’d think he’d be glad to get away,” Curt sighed.

            “Would _you_ have been glad to have your mum taken away when you were that age?”

            “Hell no.  She didn’t start torturing me until years later.”

            “Exactly.”  Arthur shook his head.  “For now, we’ll just have to try extra hard to make him enjoy it here.  Once he’s older, he’ll see that he was lucky to be taken away from her before suffering any damage.”

            Curt nodded, but he didn’t feel particularly reassured.

            “What about the concert?” Arthur asked, after an uncomfortable pause.  “Did you hear back about it yet?”

            “Yeah, Tommy called this morning, while you were in the shower,” Curt said.  “The network’s on board with the idea, as long as we really play it up.”

            “Play it up how?”

            Curt opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again with a grin.  “Oh, you’ll see,” he chuckled.   It’d be more fun if Arthur didn’t know what was going to happen and could be just as surprised as the rest of the audience.

            “You’re not goin’ to…I mean…you won’t…he won’t be…”

            “He’s not gonna be licking my guitar, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

            Arthur let out a sigh of relief that was so big it was almost comical.  Curt did his best not to laugh.  “’Ave you decided what you’re goin’ to play?”

            “Alicia’s talking to them about it, apparently.  I told Tommy flat out that I’m not about to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’  I don’t know it, and it’s fucking stupid.”

            Arthur laughed.  “The idea of you singin’ that is…”  His voice trailed off as laughter took over again.

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah, exactly.  So I don’t know what’s gonna happen right at midnight to show that it’s midnight.  A video of fireworks behind us or something.  I’ll let them figure it out.”

            “What’re you plannin’ to wear?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I had something in mind, but it turns out I don’t have it anymore,” he sighed.  A lot of his clothes from the ‘70s were lost, sold or stolen when he went to prison, and now it turned out he didn’t have a single pair of silver pants left.  “So instead I thought maybe I’d wear the outfit I wore to the Oscars,” Curt said.  “We need to get you something to match.”

            “I’ll see about that tomorrow,” Arthur promised, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.  “I’ve got to go speak to a professor from Columbia anyway.”

            “What?  Why?  Who is he?”

            Arthur laughed.  “ _She_ is an expert in the meteorological sciences.  My article felt like it needed a bit more punch.  I thought maybe while I was talkin’ to her might be a good time for you to go get Mick’s stuff from his mum’s flat.”

            “Yeah, probably.  The old man’s gonna be antsy to get rid of Candi’s stuff, now that she’s been sentenced.”  Curt sighed.  “Better look through her stuff for anything she’d want to keep.  Can’t believe how much work a cheap lay eight years ago is turning out to be.”

            “The cheaper something—or someone—is, the more you’ll have to pay in the end.”

            Curt looked at Arthur dubiously.  “Should you be saying that after you put out so easy as a kid?”

            “There’s a difference between ‘easy’ and ‘cheap.’  Besides, I think I’ve proven _very_ expensive in the long run.”

            Curt laughed.  “But worth it,” he said, kissing him deeply.


	21. Chapter 21

            Arthur couldn’t help fidgeting as the tailor took his measurements.  “You’ve got Curt’s measurements still, right?”

            “For the fifth time, yes,” the man snapped.  “Though I’m not so sure about what you’re asking me to make.  Is he really going to _wear_ that?”

            “That’s the idea,” Arthur assured him.  “He’s worn things very like it before.”

            “Hmm.”  The tailor lowered his tape measure, and stepped away.  “What did you want yours to look like?”

            “I’ll want the trousers out of the same material as Curt’s,” Arthur said, hoping he still had the courage to wear something so flashy.

            “And the rest?”

            “I’d like the jacket to be a dark purple,” Arthur said, feeling himself flush a bit.

            “In what material?”

            “Uh…same material as the trousers?”

            The tailor’s eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head.  “Always the quiet ones…” he muttered.  “Do you need a shirt, too?”

            “I’m sure I can use something I’ve already got, thanks,” Arthur replied.  “And you won’t have any trouble gettin’ them done by Christmas?”

            The tailor laughed.  “No one said _that_.  I’ll get ‘em done, but it’ll be heaps of trouble.  For which you’ll be paying through the nose.”

            “Yeah, I know.  But it’s important.”

            The tailor shrugged.  “It’ll be ready,” he promised.

            “When you call to let me know it’s ready, don’t tell Curt about it!” Arthur added.  That would completely ruin the surprise.

            “How about you just come in on the 24th?” the tailor countered.  “Not likely to be ready before that.  Leather’s a tricky material, even before being given a metallic treatment.”

            “Curt’s is the important one.  Mine can wait to be picked up until the 30th, if need be.”

            The tailor stared at Arthur for a moment, then shook his head.  “The less I know, the better.”

            Arthur grimaced.  “It’s nothing the least bit scandalous,” he assured the man.

            “Really, one more word, and I won’t make either one,” the tailor threatened.

            Arthur sighed, but accepted the defeat.  There was just no way around it; some people would always look at them as perverts, as freaks on the outskirts of society.  No point in fighting it.

            After paying the advance, Arthur left the tailor’s shop, and headed for the subway station.  It had taken a bit longer than expected to get his measurements taken, but he should still be on time for his meeting at Columbia…

 

***

 

            “We just have to make this stop real fast before going back to get your stuff,” Curt assured Mick as they got out of the car.  “It shouldn’t take long.”  Though he probably should have called first for an appointment…

            Mick was walking right beside him as they entered the building, but the further they went through the sterile, cheerless, airless corridors, the more Mick hung back.  By the time Curt opened the door to the clinic, Mick was walking directly behind him, clinging to one of the legs of his jeans.

            “Oh, not again!” the receptionist moaned as soon as Curt entered the clinic’s waiting room.  “What is the _matter_ with you?” she demanded.  “You do _not_ have to keep getting tested over and over again!  You’re clean and your boyfriend’s clean, so unless you’re screwing around on each other, there’s no reason to keep coming back here, you paranoid lunatic!”

            Her assessment of Curt’s mental state made Mick start giggling.  The sound made the receptionist’s face scrunch up in confusion.

            Curt reached back to take Mick’s hand, and led the boy around in front of him.  “I wanted the boy tested, just in case,” he said.

            “Why?” the woman asked.  She glanced down at Mick, then looked back at Curt with an accusing stare.

            “Go sit down over there, Mick,” Curt said, pointing at a chair on the other side of the waiting room.  The boy obeyed silently, and Curt moved a little closer to the receptionist, so they could talk without Mick hearing.  “His mom’s an addict, and God only knows if she was careful about using clean needles.  What if she got infected while he was in the womb?”

            “Has she been tested?” the receptionist asked.

            Curt shrugged.  “I doubt it.  But she’s in jail now, so it’s out of my hands.”

            The receptionist sighed deeply.  “This is completely irregular,” she said, getting to her feet, “so I’ll have to ask someone about it.  Take a seat, and I’ll let you know.”

            Curt nodded, and sat down beside his son, trying to think of a good explanation for what they were doing there.  “Is Mom dying?” Mick asked, looking up at Curt with tear-rimmed eyes.

            Curt smiled, and tousled his hair.  “I told you she’s not, didn’t I?”

            “Then what are we doing here?” the boy whined.

            “I just wanted to be sure.  For my own peace of mind.”

            “Is it gonna hurt?”

            “A little,” Curt admitted.  They’d have to draw blood, after all.  “But it’ll be over quick, and then it won’t hurt anymore.  And I’ll get you some ice cream or something.”

            Mick nodded, with a grim look of determination.  “I don’t need ice cream,” he insisted.  “I’m a big boy.”

            “Hey, everyone needs ice cream!  I like a good scoop of ice cream myself.”  Though he liked it best when it was served on Arthur’s sexy, naked body…

            Mick smiled, and nodded happily.

            The receptionist came back soon, and took them in to see the doctor.  He, too, asserted that it was completely irregular, but he went ahead and drew the blood for the test anyway.  Afterwards, he took Curt aside and asked if he wanted some of his own blood drawn for a paternity test.  Curt couldn’t see the point of that.  He didn’t have any doubts that Mick was his son, and even if it turned out that he wasn’t, it didn’t matter anyway.  Candi had been his girlfriend for a while, even if she hadn’t meant anything to him, and her son needed help, so that made it his responsibility.  Besides, it was kind of cool, having this little kid gazing at him so fondly.  Made him feel all respectable.  He’d never been respectable before…

            After they were done at the clinic, Curt took Mick to get a hot fudge sundae, then they finally went back to Candi’s apartment.  The old man let them inside, and Mick led Curt into the tiny, closet-like room that had been his bedroom.  Curt let Mick show him book after book and wooden toy after wooden toy, until the boy seemed to have exhausted his pride in his possessions.  Then Curt handed him one of the duffel bags he’d brought, and told him to pack up all his stuff.

            As soon as Mick was hard at work, Curt went into Candi’s room to have a look around.  It was hard to say what she might or might not want to keep.  If she’d want _any_ of it.  Most of the stuff in the apartment seemed to be utter crap.  Picking up a photo album off a shelf, he flipped through it.  Some of the Polaroids of him and Candi made him cringe.  At least she’d chosen one of the less sexually explicit ones to give to Mick…

            “So you’ll be taking her belongings as well as the boy’s?” the old man asked.

            “Some of them, yeah,” Curt told him, slinging the photo album into a duffel bag.  “Just the ones that seem like she’s gonna want them again when she gets out.”

            “Did your boyfriend tell you that there was back rent owed on this apartment?”

            “Yeah.  I brought my checkbook.”  Curt glanced at the uncertain look on the old man’s face, and laughed.  “Don’t worry, I’m good for it.  My new record made the charts last week, and I just got a live TV gig.  Plenty of money to pay Candi’s rent.”

            Curt continued to look through the contents of Candi’s bedroom, uncomfortably aware of the old man watching his every move.  Did he think Curt was going to steal her crap?  That he’d just cut and run?  Whatever he thought, it was fucking irritating.

            Very little of the stuff looked like it was worth saving, until Curt got to Candi’s record collection.  It was about the only decent thing in the whole room.  The Rolling Stones albums he figured there was no point in keeping; the Stones were hardly going to go out of print.  His own records…Curt was torn on that score.  Would it be vain of him to keep them?  Some of the early ones were out of print, so it made sense to hold onto those for her, surely.

            Then there was his 1979 album.  He’d actually just started dating Candi when it came out.  Hadn’t he signed it for her or some such shit?  Curt picked up the album, and slid the record and its sleeve out.  Sure enough, there was something scribbled on the sleeve.  He could just barely make out the word “Candi,” and nothing else.  Even his signature was a garbled mess.

            “What’s that say?” the old man asked, peering over his shoulder.

            “Beats the shit out of me,” Curt admitted with a sigh.  “I must have been _really_ high if I couldn’t even write.”  He shook his head, and put all his albums into the duffel bag.  Then he paused a moment, thinking.  “Maybe Candi’d like me to send her all her records and the record player to listen to in the joint.”

            “Do they allow record players in prison?”

            “…maybe not.”  Curt sighed.  He couldn’t even remember something that basic.  Then again, conditions were probably better in a women’s prison anyway.  “But maybe they do.  Could you just hold onto the records and the player until I can visit her and find out?  Mick wants to see her every weekend, so it won’t take long.  If she can have them, I’ll come back for them.”

            “They’re what will fetch the highest price,” the old man grumbled, “but I suppose I can, as long as you pay all of her back rent.”

            “I will!”  What the hell was the old man’s problem?  Why was he so convinced that Curt couldn’t be trusted?

            The rest of Candi’s stuff didn’t take long to look through.  Her clothes were garbage, and her furniture and dishes all looked like they’d been thrown out by K-Mart.  Most of her books were sleazy romances, but Curt packed them up all the same, since she’d probably want something to read while she was on the inside.

            Mick was finished even before Curt was, and he dumped the bag of his stuff at Curt’s feet, announcing that he was going to go back and visit with ‘Gramma Ursula.’  The old man looked uncomfortable, but didn’t stop the boy from going.  Once Mick was out of earshot, Curt turned to the old man suspiciously.  “What did you say your wife’s sick with?” he asked.

            “I don’t know,” the old man admitted.  “I don’t have the money to take her to a doctor.”

            Curt sighed.  “Well, once I’ve paid Candi’s back rent, then you’ll have the money, so you’d better get her seen to.  Mick’s gonna be upset if anything happens to her.”

            The old man grimaced, and began muttering in German, but Curt couldn’t catch it.  Not that he really spoke much German, but he’d picked up _some_ back in Berlin.

            As soon as Curt was finished sorting through Candi’s crap, he picked up the duffel bag of Mick’s stuff, and followed the old man back into his apartment.  The place smelled like gingerbread and old people.  There were vases in the window sills and on top of the refrigerator, all filled with dead flowers.  The old woman must have been down for a while…

            Curt could hear Mick’s voice coming from one of the back rooms, so he followed the sound, until he reached where Mick was standing beside a bed, talking animatedly to an old woman, plump but very pale.  As Curt walked up behind Mick, the voluminous sleeve on her robe slipped aside, giving him a view of the numbers tattooed on her arm.

            “Mick, we’ve got to go soon,” Curt said, patting him on the head.  “Arthur’s sure to be home by now, and he’s gonna be worried about us.  I’ll bring you back to see her again soon, okay?”

            Mick nodded, beaming up at him, then started giving the old woman a big hug.  Curt left the room, and went back into the kitchen, where the old man was calculating figures.  “This is the back rent owed on the apartment,” he said, handing it to Curt.

            Curt was surprised at how large the figure was.  “Your wife must be _really_ sweet on Mick if you let the rent slide this long,” he said, shaking his head.  As he was writing out the check, Curt glanced at the old man’s arm.  Only one number was visible at the base of his sleeve.  “Look, make sure you take your wife to the best doctors, okay?” Curt said, as he handed over the check.  “Send me the bills.”

            The old man scowled.  “I don’t need charity,” he said grimly.

            “It’s for Mick.”

            The old man looked at him suspiciously, then glanced down at his arm, tugging his sleeve forward to cover up the tattoo.  “I don’t need pity, either,” he said, even more coldly.  “Or is it the guilt of the ones who were never in any danger?”

            Curt shook his head.  “If I’d been living in Germany in the ‘30s, I’d have ended up in the camps, too,” he pointed out.  “Just with a triangle on my chest instead of a star.”

            The old man stared at him for a moment, then nodded uncomfortably.  “I suppose you would have,” he agreed.  “I’m sorry.  I get a lot of false sympathy.”

            “It’s probably not all false,” Curt assured him.  He couldn’t go any further than that before Mick came bounding back into the room, asking what they were going to have for dinner.  The kid rebounded like elastic…


	22. Chapter 22

            Curt’s television appearance to promote his new album had been awkward just to watch; Arthur couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable it must have been to take part in.  Since his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the cold, he couldn’t sing as he had been expected to, and so he had to spend twice as long talking to the host, who was clearly uncomfortable talking about Curt’s love life.  But since Curt didn’t want to tell anyone about Mick yet, there really wasn’t a lot else to talk about once he’d talked about the new album a bit.  At least it had given him a chance to plug the New Year’s Eve concert, and to reassure the world that despite the ill will between Curt and Brian when they broke up, and despite Curt’s role in Tommy’s secret being revealed to the world, the two of them were actually good friends now, and were both looking forward to performing together again for the first time in so many years.

            Arthur would have liked a little _less_ emphasis on the friendship between Curt and Tommy, in all truth.  It made him uncomfortable all over even thinking about the fact that they were on friendly terms.  No matter how often he told himself that Curt would never leave him for Tommy, it was hard to make himself believe it completely.

            Actually, Arthur probably took more reassurance from Mick’s presence than anything else:  Curt couldn’t just freely ditch him now that there was a child to look after.  Of course, the boy was, technically, only Curt’s responsibility, but Arthur had been helping all the same, and in any case, the kind of relationship Curt and Brian had had so many years ago hadn’t been the type that was conducive to the stable responsibility of raising a child.  Even if Tommy decided he wanted Curt back, he wouldn’t want to take in a child as well.

            Mick’s first trip to visit his mother in prison had left the boy depressed and miserable, so the following day, Arthur suggested that the boy should spend the day with Alicia’s son; they could play with the other boy’s friends, or go to the cinema, or whatever else seven year olds did these days.  Mick was a little hesitant, but the promise of a movie in the theatres—a very rare treat while he was with his mother—convinced him to agree to it.

            Once the boy was out of the flat, Arthur took their sole box of Christmas decorations out of the hall closet.  “It’ll cheer him up, gettin’ home and findin’ it all festive and decorated,” Arthur assured Curt.

            “Yeah, I guess so,” Curt sighed, shaking his head.  “Not much room under our little tree for presents, though.”  Their tiny plastic tree was more of a centrepiece on the dining room table than a Christmas tree in the usual sense.

            “That’s true,” Arthur agreed.  “Maybe you’d better go out and get a real one.  It’ll be his first Christmas with us—maybe his first real one ever.  You want it to be a good memory for him, right?”

            Curt sighed deeply.  “Yeah.  I’ll be back soon.”

            “You want me to come with you?”

            “No, you go ahead and finish this shit.  I hate decorating anyway.”

            Arthur gave him a kiss, then resumed decorating the flat.  When he was done, he shoved the tiny tree back into the closet; no point in having a small one and a big one, right?  But he’d bought it for their first Christmas together…no, it had to go out, pointless or not.  Carefully, he set it in the middle of the table as usual, arranging the cheap, beaded garlands on its branches.

            When Curt got back, Arthur had to help him wrestle the tree inside, and move aside some of the furniture in the living room to make a space for it.  “They sold me some crap to put on it, too,” Curt said.  “It’s down in the car.”

            “I’ll get it, love.”  Arthur took the keys, and rode the lift down to the car park, quickly retrieving the two bags out of the passenger’s seat of Curt’s GTO.  There were still pine needles on the top of the car.  Brushing them aside, he saw that the tree had scratched up the paint a bit.  Curt was going to be cross about that…

            When Arthur got back into the flat, he found Curt standing in the doorway that led to their bedroom, staring up at the mistletoe with pursed lips.  “Why the fuck did you put this up?” he demanded.  “What’s the point?”

            Arthur laughed, moving up behind him to slip his arms around his lover.  “You ‘aven’t forgotten what it’s for, surely?”

            “Seems inappropriate, with a kid in the house.”

            Arthur had put up a sprig of mistletoe for their first Christmas together, and Curt had objected then, too.  Mistletoe’s purpose was to elicit a kiss, but all they had to do was look at each other to want to kiss, so Curt couldn’t see the point to having it.  Then Arthur had changed the rules a bit, and suddenly Curt quite loved mistletoe…

            Turning Curt to face him, Arthur smiled, and gave him a light kiss.  “But there isn’t a child in the flat at the moment,” he pointed out, sliding one hand down to caress Curt through the front of his trousers.  The reaction was almost instant.

            “What if Mick comes home…?” Curt moaned, even as Arthur knelt down and started opening the zip on his trousers.

            “He’ll be gone another hour at least,” Arthur insisted, leaning in to start kissing and licking at Curt’s swelling erection.

            Curt let out a delighted sigh, and started lacing his fingers through Arthur’s hair as he took Curt into his mouth, sucking and gently swirling with his tongue.

            The whole experience was disappointingly short, but Curt made up for it by returning the favour.  They spent a few minutes kissing afterwards, then headed into the living room to decorate the tree, as if nothing unusual had happened.  Because, after all, it hadn’t.  That was what the mistletoe was for.

            The decorations provided by the tree lot were a rather feeble showing at best.  A cheap felt tree skirt to catch the needles, and a handful of tangled popcorn garlands, as well as some very unappetizing-looking candy canes.  The lights were standard, as were the glass ball ornaments.  In the end, the tree may have looked festive, but it couldn’t compare to the ones Mick had seen at the department store.  Arthur was worried that would disappoint the boy, but Curt told him not to worry so much.

            Arthur knew that Curt was just saying that as an excuse to stop messing around with the tree, but perhaps he was still right.  Curt had already fetched a beer and taken a seat on the sofa to see what was on television, so Arthur sat down beside him, cuddling up.  After a moment, he frowned, looking at the living room.

            “We ‘aven’t even got a chimneyplace,” Arthur said.

            “You’re only just noticing that?” Curt laughed.  “C’mon, man, how long have you been living here?”

            “It’s not that I didn’t notice before,” Arthur told him, “but I only just thought of how it would affect Mick’s Christmas.”

            “Oh, yeah.  Do kids his age still believe in Santa?”

            “No idea,” Arthur admitted.  “I think I gave up believin’ in Father Christmas quite young.  My brother loved shattering my dreams.”

            “Yeah, mine too.”  Curt shrugged.  “We were always told that Santa didn’t bother with trailers anyway.”  Curt took a swallow of his beer.  “Candi’s apartment didn’t have a fireplace, either.  Maybe he’s used to not being visited by Santa.”

            “Or maybe he’s been told he comes in through the window,” Arthur suggested.

            “Like a fucking cat burglar?” Curt laughed.

            Arthur shrugged, but wasn’t sure what else to say about it.  They sat there watching the telly in relative silence until Mick got back, about half an hour later.  The boy was thrilled by the decorations, and spent some time gushing excitedly about them, before recounting every single thing that had happened during his outing.  It was amazing to Arthur how chatty Mick was, considering how silent his father often was.

            Once Mick had finally exhausted his lines of conversation, Curt crouched down in front of the boy.  “Have you decided what you want to ask Santa for?” he asked.

            Mick looked at his father with disgust.  “I’m much too old to believe in Santa,” he announced firmly.

            “Oh.”  Curt cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “I guess that’s easier,” he sighed.  Maybe he’d been looking forward to the whole ‘Santa’ thing?  “Well, have you decided what you want _us_ to give you for Christmas, then?”

            Mick bit his lips for a moment, pulling both of them into his mouth completely.  “Um…I’m okay.  I don’t need anything.  After all, I’ve got a dad now.  I don’t need toys, too.”

            Curt pulled the boy into a big hug, ignoring his complaints and squirming.  As Arthur moved closer, he could see that Curt was crying.


	23. Chapter 23

            The days leading up to Christmas Eve had been spoiled for Arthur by the last thing the U.S. Senate had done before disbanding for the holiday:  they had passed, with a very slim 2/3 majority, President Reynolds’ proposed 27th Amendment, which was designed to repeal the 22nd Amendment.  He had been pushing the amendment since January of 1986, but Arthur had never imagined he would be able to get it through even one house of Congress.  The House of Representatives still hadn’t finished debating it, so Arthur held out the hope that it wouldn’t pass in the House, but what if it did?  Hopefully even then the states would refuse to ratify it, but…the idea of Reynolds remaining in the White House for another four years—or eight years—or twelve years—or more!—it was terrifying, and chilled Arthur to the core.

            Only when Curt left early in the morning to do a preliminary rehearsal for the New Year’s Eve concert did it dawn on Arthur that Christmas Eve had arrived.  Of course, he had asked to go with Curt to the rehearsal, but Curt insisted that he wanted everything to be a surprise, and wouldn’t let him come along.

            In trying not to give in to the terror that Curt was planning on having another affair with Brian/Tommy, Arthur reminded himself repeatedly that Curt’s lengthy absence would make it much easier for him to bring Curt’s present into the flat.  Soon after Curt left, Arthur went into the living room, where Mick was playing video games.  Sitting down on the sofa, he asked the boy to put the game on pause so they could talk.  Mick obeyed, and was soon staring at him curiously.

            “Can you keep a secret?” Arthur asked.

            Mick nodded uncertainly.  “What kind of secret?”

            “I have to go get a very special Christmas present for your father, and I don’t want him to find out about it before he opens it tomorrow morning.  Can you keep that secret for me?”

            Mick grinned excitedly.  “Yeah!  I’m good at that!  I didn’t tell Gramma Ursula what Grampa Fred was getting her for her birthday, and I didn’t—”

            “Yes, I believe you,” Arthur said, cutting him off.  “Finish up with your game, then get your shoes on.”

            “Huh?”

            “I can’t leave you here alone while I go out to get his present.  So you have to come with me.”

            Mick stared at him for a moment or two, then nodded, and returned to his game.  He lost soon after, and immediately went dashing off for his shoes.  The whole ride down in the lift, Mick insisted that he’d been on the subway lots of times, so Arthur didn’t need to worry about him running off or being a bad boy, because he was always good as gold.  While Arthur was quite sure a lot of that was exaggeration, he was pleased to see the boy behave himself nicely for the entire trip to the tailor’s shop.

            The tailor did a bit of a double-take on seeing Mick following Arthur into the shop, but he didn’t say a word about the child.  “I’ve got everything ready,” he told Arthur, “if you want to have a look at it.”

            Arthur looked it over briefly.  Curt’s present was absolutely _perfect_.  His own trousers looked fine, but he wasn’t entirely pleased with the jacket.  He hadn’t meant for it to be _metallic_ purple, and the cut wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but it was nice enough.  It would certainly more than suffice, especially considering that he wasn’t expecting to be on camera, or if he was, not for long.  “Everything looks great,” Arthur said.  “Will there be any chance of alterations if anything doesn’t fit?” he asked.  “Before New Year’s, I mean.”

            “I’m not normally in the shop between Christmas and New Year’s if I can avoid it,” the tailor told him, “but I’ll put my home number on the bill.  If you need alterations, call me and we’ll set something up.”  He started writing something on a sales slip.  “I assume this is for his New Year’s Eve concert?”

            “That’s right.  I wanted to surprise him with a really smashin’ outfit to wear.”

            The tailor smirked as he handed Arthur the bill.  “He’ll probably be pretty surprised when he sees the bill, too,” he commented.

            The price written on the invoice just about took Arthur’s breath away.  “Y-yes, he…ah…he will be,” he agreed, with a bit of an involuntary shudder.

            “But he _can_ afford it, yes?” the tailor asked, with a cold iron in his voice.

            “Yes, he can,” Arthur agreed.  The bill wasn’t anywhere near what Curt was going to be getting for the concert, after all.  But it was by far the most expensive present Arthur had ever given, and hopefully the most expensive one he ever would give.

            “Is Dad gonna wear that?” Mick asked, looking at the garments in confusion as the tailor began putting them into a heavy-duty garment bag.

            “That’s the idea,” Arthur told him.

            “Is he going to a costume party as a space alien?”

            The question made Arthur laugh a lot more than it probably should have.  But given Brian’s alien alter ego Maxwell Demon, how could he not laugh?  “Your dad used to dress like that all the time back in the early ‘70s,” he told the boy, when he finally finished laughing.

            “That’s not how people dress in the ‘70s on TV,” Mick insisted.

            “Your father’s section of the ‘70s doesn’t make television very often,” Arthur chuckled.  “A bit much for television audiences.”

            Mick couldn’t understand that answer at all, and kept peppering Arthur with questions as he was writing the tailor his check.  He was trying to answer the questions as best he could, but…the boy was not making it easy.  Even after he seemed to get it, he still had _more_ questions.  Every time he asked about if Arthur knew Curt back in the ‘70s, Arthur’s stomach clenched up.  How was he supposed to answer that?

            Once they got back to the flat, Arthur begged Mick to stop asking questions about the ‘70s, lest Curt begin to suspect something when he got home.  The boy groaned a bit, but acquiesced, heading back into the living room to watch television.  After hiding his own new outfit behind some of his own clothes, Arthur found a large box in the hall closet, and carefully laid Curt’s new suit in it, wrapped it, then slipped it under the tree, at the back, where Curt hopefully wouldn’t notice it until the next morning.

            The pile of presents was actually quite impressive, though most of it was of course for Mick.  Rather than simply getting him things in the interim, they had chosen to make most of them Christmas presents, so many of them were video cassettes, with a few books and some toys thrown in.  It was difficult to know what he would want, though, and much of it was a gamble.

            When Curt and Mick had returned with all of Mick’s meagre possessions, Mick had been most excited to be reunited with his favourite book:  _The Myths of the Ancient Greeks_ by Simone Dancer.  It wasn’t one Arthur was familiar with, but it was easy to see why Mick loved it so much, as the text was crisp and entertaining, and the illustrations were all done in the style of ancient pottery.  Flipping through it, Arthur was pleasantly surprised to see that while it didn’t openly call attention to the various homosexual relationships as such, it did make it hard to interpret the relationships as anything else:  Hercules was described as loving Hylas more than anyone else, and it described Achilles as kissing Patroclus on his way out to battle, and again after he came back a corpse.  Arthur wasn’t sure if it was the author’s style or the subject matter that made Mick so excited by the book, but in browsing the children’s section of a bookstore, he had noticed another book by the same author, and picked it up for the boy, just in case.  Many of the other books under the tree had been chosen through a similar process.

            It was quite late by the time Curt finally got home, and Arthur had started to worry a bit.  “Sorry,” Curt said, as he shut the door behind him.  “We had to do three run-throughs, because a lot of the tech staff don’t want to have to come in between now and New Year’s if they don’t have to.”

            “You double-checked our order for tomorrow, right?” Arthur asked.

            “Yeah, they’ll have it here on time.”

            “Order?” Mick asked, grabbing at Curt’s guitar case curiously.

            Curt chuckled, rubbing the boy’s hair affectionately.  “We get our Christmas dinner delivered.”

            “Why?”

            “’Cause the one time we tried to cook it ourselves, it was a fucking disaster.”

            “Curt, please don’t swear in front of the boy,” Arthur sighed.

            Curt grimaced exaggeratedly, making Mick laugh.  Then he gently pushed past the boy so he could put down his guitar and take off his coat.  It was still the same rather unattractive black and tan leather jacket he had been wearing when they met again in that pub almost four years ago.  Arthur had since replaced his worn-out black leather jacket, but Curt wouldn’t hear of replacing his.  Some days it seemed endearing, and other days it was just embarrassing.

            “What are we having for Christmas dinner?” Mick asked curiously.

            “Goose, stuffing, a great many vegetables that your father refuses to eat, and plum pudding,” Arthur told him.

            “What’s plum pudding?”

            “Disgusting,” Curt laughed.

            Arthur sighed, shaking his head.

            “Why goose instead of turkey?” Mick asked.

            “We both grew up ‘aving goose,” Arthur explained.  “It’s more common in Britain than it is here.”

            “And there were more geese where I grew up than turkeys,” Curt said, with a laugh.  “Of course, those were Canadian geese.  They don’t taste that different.”

            Mick didn’t quite understand that explanation—unsurprisingly—and continued to ask more and more questions, until Curt finally shut him up by telling him to go and get ready for _tonight_ ’s dinner, because the pizza he had ordered would arrive soon.  “Pizza again?” Arthur asked, with a resigned sigh, as soon as the boy had left to wash up and turn off the telly.

            “What?  What’s wrong with pizza?”

            “Aside from the fact that we have it three or four times a week?”

            Curt laughed.  “Some New Yorkers have it almost every day.”

            While Arthur knew that was true from his interactions with colleagues past and present, it didn’t make it any less monotonous.  But he really didn’t want to have to learn how to cook, either, so…what choice did he have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find an actual children's book that was in print in the 1980s that even hinted at the bisexual nature of many of the Greek mythical figures, so I invented one. (Just in case anyone was wondering if the book in question here is real...)
> 
> BTW, you have no idea how hard it was to make my fingers type "Hercules" and "Patroclus" instead of "Heracles" and "Patroclos."


	24. Chapter 24

            Mick came flying noisily into the bedroom before the sun was finished rising.  That set Arthur to squirming and panicking a bit, because of course they were both naked.  But given the heavy comforter on top of them, Curt really didn’t think that mattered.

            “There’s a stocking!” Mick exclaimed, bouncing up onto the foot of the bed.  “Filled with candy and toys and stuff!”

            “Guess Santa’s real after all,” Curt told him.  “Now go back to bed.  It’s too early.”

            “It’s not _that_ early,” Arthur pointed out, almost in a whisper.  A nasty, laughing-at-his-lover kind of whisper.

            “C’mon, I was up late last night, and I deserve at least another hour of sleep,” Curt moaned.

            “Mick, why don’t you go on and watch television for a while?” Arthur suggested.  “You can open your stocking while you wait for us to get up.”

            Mick nodded eagerly, and ran out of the room again.

            Curt clamped his eyes shut and tried to get some more sleep, but Arthur had already turned around in his arms, pressing a kiss against his lips.  “Get up, love,” he whispered into Curt’s ear.  Curt wished he could close his ears as well as his eyes.

            “Not enough sleep,” he grumbled.

            “It’s your own fault, Curt,” Arthur chuckled.  “You’re the one who wanted to stay up late to put up that stocking, and then still have sex after.”

            Curt just whimpered.  Was it fair that he should have to suffer just because he wanted to have sex with the man he loved?  It didn’t seem at all fair to _him_.

            Arthur spent several more minutes trying to get Curt out of bed.  Then he finally had the mercy to give up and get up alone.  For once, Curt decided to try and sleep through the sound of Arthur getting dressed and using the bathroom.  He was _exhausted_ , especially considering how much energy he had spent in a _triple_ rehearsal just yesterday.  He wasn’t as young as he used to be, after all!

            Not five minutes after he left the bedroom, Arthur’s raised voice came hammering down the hallway.  “Why are you eatin’ candy before breakfast?!”

            Despite himself, Curt had to laugh at that.  What else had Arthur expected the boy to do?  He was only seven, after all.  Leave him alone with candy, and of course he was gonna eat it.  That’s what Curt would have done at that age, if he’d ever had any candy.

            Curt had almost managed to drift off to sleep when the scent of bacon started wafting in through the open bedroom door.  Fuck.  That was just playing dirty.

            But if he didn’t get up and get in there soon, Arthur would make sure that Curt’s share got eaten without him.  That’d be a shit way to start a holiday.  So he didn’t really have any choice, did he?

            Still, in order to register a protest at being forced out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:20 on Christmas morning, Curt didn’t put anything on but his pajamas.  Unlike Arthur, who had actually put on _clothes_.  English propriety and all that.  Arthur gave him a look of disappointment, but didn’t say anything.

            Unfortunately, Arthur had gone ahead and cooked a full breakfast.  He was good at bacon—was it possible to be bad at bacon?—and toast, but his eggs sucked.  Curt didn’t like to say so, though, so he did his best to choke them down.  Mick only had one forkful before he stopped eating the eggs, and focused instead on heaping even more jelly on his toast.  By the time the kid was done with the jelly, his toast probably contained more sugar than the chocolate still smeared above his mouth had.

            After breakfast, they sat down on the sofa—with Mick on the floor—to watch a Christmas movie.  Arthur generally liked to watch _Scrooge_ , but in deference to Mick, they ended up watching _The Grinch_ instead.  Which, of course, was only half an hour long, so they still had a _lot_ of time to kill before lunchtime.

            Against Arthur’s objections, they ended up playing Nintendo games until Christmas dinner was delivered.  Mostly _Super Mario Bros._  Not very holiday-appropriate, but at least it was fun.  Though by the time they were done, Arthur was reading a book instead of watching how good Curt was, or praising Mick’s skill…which wasn’t as great as Curt’s, of course, but he _was_ only a kid, after all.

            Christmas dinner had always been a little awkward for Curt.  Though it didn’t feel like Christmas if it wasn’t goose, eating goose also brought back bad memories.  It was probably the same way for Arthur.  But with Mick there, everything was somehow brighter.  Maybe because it was all new to him.  He’d never had goose before—no surprise there—and he’d never tried, or even heard of, most of the vegetables they were having, either.  He didn’t seem to like the goose much, but he liked more of the vegetables than Curt did.  And, much to his father’s shock, he actually liked the plum pudding.

            Once they’d finished their dessert—Curt had ice cream, ‘cause he was not _about_ to put anything as stinky as plum pudding in his mouth while sober—they headed in to open presents.  Which mostly meant they sat on the sofa watching as Mick tore through the wrapping paper on one present after another.  Going that far overboard had probably been a mistake:  now the kid would expect that many presents _every_ year.

            A lot of them Mick didn’t seem terribly excited about.  Books—except for a couple that were about Greek mythology—and Disney movies didn’t get much out of him.  He was thrilled to get a purchased tape of _Clash of the Titans_ , though.  Curt had wanted to give him some of the action figures, too, but of course they were long gone; the movie was almost as old as Mick was.

            The toys were mostly more G.I. Joes and some Transformers from Curt, and some non-violent toys like cars and shit from Arthur, but Mick was equally excited by all of them.  There were also some of the latest video games for him, though Curt was pretty sure that if they hadn’t been bought for Mick, they’d have been under the tree for _him_.

            The floor was completely trashed with wrapping paper by the time Mick realized he was the only one opening presents, and asked them when they were gonna open _their_ presents.  To Curt’s surprise, Arthur immediately got up and picked up a fucking huge present.  Curt hadn’t noticed it there before…

            It was the wrong shape to be a new guitar, and way too heavy to be a framed poster or something, so Curt was completely at a loss to guess what was inside.  That only made him all the more curious, setting him to ripping the wrapping open almost as eagerly as Mick had been all afternoon.

            He opened the box inside the wrapping paper to reveal silvery leather with leopard-print sections.  Curt’s heart was beating a mile a minute as he pulled the top garment out.  His old jacket, and there were the pants down below, laced-up fly and everything.  The outfit from the day they had met, all except the belt, which was a shoddy recreation.

            “How…?” Curt asked.  They _couldn’t_ be the actual outfit he had worn at the Death of Glitter concert, surely.  Hadn’t those gotten pretty beat up by the time he’d gone to jail?

            “I special ordered it,” Arthur told him, sitting down close beside him.  “I hope I remembered all the details right…?”

            Curt nodded, leaning over to give his lover a passionate kiss.  “It’s perfect,” he assured him.  “I can’t wait to try it on and make sure it fits.  Where did you get it made?”

            “Same tailor who usually does your concert clothes,” Arthur said.  “I thought you could wear it for New Year’s.”

            “Sounds perfect,” Curt agreed.  That had been what he had really wanted, after all.

            “Sorry the belt’s not too good,” Arthur sighed.  “Closest I could find.”

            “That’s okay; the belt’s the only part of the outfit I still have,” Curt laughed.

            “What’s going on?” Mick asked, staring at them in confusion.

            “Long story,” Curt laughed.  “But now we’ve gotta find you something to wear to match,” Curt said, looking back at Arthur.

            “I had him make me something, too,” Arthur assured him.

            “You’ll have to try it on while I try this on…”

            “That’s what I had in mind…”

            “Are you gonna make me go to bed now?” Mick asked, breaking through the tender moment with a tremulous voice.

            “Why would we do that?” Arthur asked, looking at him in confusion.  “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

            “Yeah, but whenever Mom looked at one of her boyfriends like that, they always made me go to bed, even if it was first thing in the morning.”

            Arthur coughed uncomfortably, making Curt laugh.  “We’ve got more self-control than that.  Don’t worry.  Just go ahead and open some more presents.”

            “Okay!”

            Curt leaned in to whisper into Arthur’s ear.  “I can’t wait for tonight, when I get the other half of this present.”

            Arthur slipped one hand onto his thigh.  “Me, too,” he whispered back.

            The rest of the afternoon dragged on like a dying snail.  It was torture, almost as bad as what his parents had done to him.  All Curt could think of was being alone with Arthur, seeing him put on what he’d had made to match this, and then seeing him take it back off again…


	25. Chapter 25

            The days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve passed in a blur.  The closer they got to the day of the concert, the more time Curt had to spend prepping for it.  Despite that the rehearsal had gone well, Curt had to practice a _lot_.  His new songs were no problem, but there were songs on the schedule that he hadn’t played in ten years or more, and some he’d never actually played before at all.  The network rep and the technicians had all been satisfied by the end of the third rehearsal, but not Tommy.  He wanted practice after practice.

            Brian had always been a perfectionist, after all.

            They were not fun practice sessions.  Shannon stood just off-stage at all times, giving Curt the stare of death.  As if he was going to try something the minute her back was turned.  Despite the fact that he had Arthur waiting for him at home, and that Arthur was a better catch in every way.  The fact that he couldn’t bring Arthur with him wasn’t helping, but he really wanted to see the surprise on Arthur’s face at the concert.  He made the most adorable faces when he got excited.

            But eventually the day arrived, at long last.  Alicia came to pick up Mick about five o’clock, and delivered a few last minute instructions, all of them either something Curt was planning on doing anyway, or couldn’t possibly do whether he wanted to or not.

            Once they were gone, Curt and Arthur had several hours before the limo was going to pick them up.  From the way he kept reaching over and just touching Curt, Arthur was probably wanting to fill some of the time with sex, but Curt had learned the hard way that having sex before a concert was a great way to give a really lousy concert.  Which was one thing if it was just an ordinary concert, but one that was going out on live television?  No.  Not happening.

            The concert was only an hour long—half an hour before midnight, and half an hour after—but the limo was scheduled to pick them up about nine.  Last minute blocking, repeated fidgeting with make-up, that kind of thing.

            They were, of course, fully dressed up in their new duds by the time they left the apartment, and Curt had put a fresh coat of black paint on his nails.  He’d even put on dark eyeliner again, for the first time in more years than he could count.  The one problem with his outfit, Curt reflected, was his boots.  He didn’t still have the same boots he’d worn then—of course!—and the pair he’d put on in their place didn’t really fit the bill very well.  The old pair had been snakeskin, and this pair was just ordinary.  No one would know the difference—other than Arthur—but it bugged Curt to have that one little thing wrong.  He could be a bit of a perfectionist, too, after all.  Just not usually in the same ways as Brian.

            Arthur, of course, looked _gorgeous_.  The metallic purple leather jacket was a classy trade-up from the glittery purple blouse, and he’d put on a super-soft blue silk shirt underneath.  Making his pants match Curt’s instead of being an ordinary pair of jeans just seemed fitting now that they were a proper couple.  Of course, he hadn’t teased out his hair or applied fading blue pigment to it, but that was okay.  At least he hadn’t gelled it back.  That was all that _really_ mattered as far as his hair was concerned.  He hadn’t put on big earrings, either, but…well, the earrings might have been overkill even back in 1974.

            Despite how long it would be before the concert started, there was already a crowd out front when the limo arrived at the club, and cameras filmed Curt and Arthur on their way inside.  Arthur seemed a little uncomfortable with that, but Curt didn’t let him draw back or hesitate.  God knows what people would do with it if he looked reluctant in any way!  They certainly wouldn’t understand it was just him being camera shy, that was for sure.

            Once they were in the backstage area, the techs insisted on walking Curt through the various cues and such _again_ , so he had Arthur wait in the little make-up room.  The last thing any of them needed was to make it into any more of a parade than it already was.  Even as it stood, Curt had been joined by Tommy and Shannon—who seemed to have surgically attached herself to her husband’s hip at some point—by the time Curt started back towards the make-up room and Arthur.

            Appropriately enough, when they got back to the make-up room, Arthur was awkwardly engaged in a conversation with Mandy.  On seeing his smile at Curt’s approach, Mandy turned and let out a laugh on seeing him.  “Curt, darling!” she exclaimed, giving him a big hug that Curt was not entirely comfortable taking part in.  “I swear, the pair of you are such ninnies!” she added, stepping back and looking him over.  “Just look at you!  A couple of hopeless romantics, really.”

            “Wait, what are you talking about?” Tommy demanded, moving up closer and looking at Curt and Arthur with suspicion before turning his gaze back to his ex-wife.  “What has his outfit to do with the other fellow?  He’s too young to have been at that concert…”

            Mandy turned a shallow, self-satisfied smile at Tommy.  “Really, Brian, what _is_ the matter with you?  You haven’t performed with Curt in more than a decade, and _that_ ’s what you’re wearing?”

            “What’s wrong with it?” Tommy replied, his voice bristling.

            “Mandy, what are you doing here?” Curt asked, trying to curtail the argument before it could get any uglier.  Also before Tommy figured out just how Curt and Arthur had really met.  Arthur had, after all, been underage in 1974, and Shannon was the type to take advantage of that knowledge.

            Mandy laughed.  “I _do_ have a radio show to think of, you know.  The television studio won’t let me broadcast your concert, but I’ve got a backstage pass to witness it all so I can give my listeners the full report tomorrow.  So do something sensational for me and boost my ratings a bit!” she added, nudging Curt with her elbow.

            “Like what?”  He might as well take the bait.  It’d distract Tommy better.

            “Well, you and Arthur could start making out when there aren’t any cameras around to film you,” Mandy suggested with a laugh.

            Even though his expression was horrified, Arthur also started blushing with a slightly hopeful smile on his lips.  Curt wasn’t entirely sure if he liked the idea or not.  Obviously, making out with Arthur was something he always enjoyed, but maybe now really wasn’t the best of times.  In fact, it might have been one of the worst, all things considered.  Mandy would just tell the story on her radio show and describe it as being ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’—her favorite words to describe their relationship—but if any of the TV guys saw them, things could get ugly. “They’re not gonna like it if we do that,” Curt said.  “Might miss my cue or something.”

            “Ugh, when did you get so dutiful?” Mandy asked, letting out an inappropriate laugh.

            “Hey, I’ve always been a pro.  My music comes first,” Curt insisted.  The words made Tommy break out into mocking laughter, which Curt did his best to ignore.

            “Will you be watchin’ the concert from backstage, too?” Arthur asked Mandy, no doubt trying to change the subject to one with less chance of personal embarrassment.

            “I thought I’d get the better show if I was out front,” Mandy said, shaking her head.  “They’ve set me up a VIP table with a fantastic view of the stage.  Do you want to join me once the show starts?”

            “Hell no,” Curt interrupted, putting a protective arm around Arthur.  “He’s staying back here where I can be sure no one’s putting any moves on him.”  Jealousy sounded like a less pathetic excuse than that Curt wanted to watch the look on his face during the show.

            “Curt, you don’t have to—” Arthur started, but his objections were soon drowned out by the sound of Mandy’s laughter.

            “Well, _you_ ’ll join me, right, Shannon?” Mandy asked.

            “I suppose so.  Too many bodies backstage will only get in the way.”

            The conversation moved on to what sort of free drinks they should gouge from the club, but Curt was too focused on the idea of what was going to happen at that table to care.  Brian’s ex-wife and Tommy’s current wife, sharing a tiny table over strong alcoholic beverages for an hour?  Any number of disasters could result from that…but the _non_ -disastrous potential outcomes were by far the more interesting to imagine.

            Eventually, it was time to get ready for the concert.  Mandy and Shannon departed for the audience, Tommy went to take up his position to the right of the stage, while Curt and Arthur headed for the left side.  The concert was to start with about fifteen minutes of Tommy’s solo music, so for that time, Curt had nothing to do.  At other group concerts, he might have watched the performance—assuming he didn’t just arrive late, like he often used to—but in this case, watching it was not a pleasant prospect.  So he and Arthur waited in the wings, far enough from the stage that they could talk quietly.  Most of their discussion had to do with how sexy Arthur looked in that get-up, and how Curt couldn’t wait to take it back off him.

            As Tommy’s last song started, Curt took off his jacket and handed it to Arthur, who followed him to the wings, setting the jacket down beside Curt’s waiting guitar, which wouldn’t be needed until midnight.  Just before his cue to go onstage, Curt gave Arthur a kiss, then ran out to take his position on stage.  The audience cheered excitedly as he launched into his first song, “Chicken Little.”  Most of the songs he was performing were his new ones, which didn’t seem to engage the audience as much as Curt had been expecting.

            Before his last solo song, Curt looked over at Arthur in the wings, and gave him a big wink before launching into “Gimme Danger.”  This time, the audience was much more enthusiastic, though not as much so as Arthur was.

            As soon as the song was over, the stage was plunged into darkness, and Curt hurried off as best he could.  Arthur helped him into his jacket, and gave him a brief kiss before Curt grabbed his guitar and hurried back onto the stage.  He was in his new position before the screen began the ten second countdown to midnight, less than twenty seconds after the lights had gone off.

            When the countdown reached five, the drum started in, and when it reached two, Curt started the guitar intro.  At zero, as the fireworks were starting outside, the lights blared back up again, as they all launched into “The Whole Shebang,” having skipped over the slow first minute to go right into the up-tempo main chorus of the song.

            The audience was so crazy with delight that it was almost hard to hear the music.  During Curt’s numbers, Tommy had changed out of that hideous white sequined number into a near-perfect recreation of the outfit Brian had worn on _Top of the Pops_ to play that very song.  He’d even tried to put his hair back into a more normal style, a bit more like what it used to be.

            Despite the new face, he was Brian Slade again.

            Glancing over at Arthur, Curt saw that his lover was transfixed with delight, a huge smile on his face.  It had been worth all the secrecy to see that expression.

            In addition to playing lead guitar on all the songs in this final half hour of the concert, Curt also joined in on some of the singing, which was an odd experience for him.  Despite that they had spent nearly two years touring together, Curt and Brian had only very rarely actually sung together; normally they had either taken turns performing, or Curt had simply backed Brian up on guitar.  Their few songs together were love ballads that had been expressly forbidden at this concert by everyone involved.  Therefore, much of what he was doing for this concert was new to Curt, but he knew all the songs so well that it hardly mattered.

            In that half hour, they covered in summary Brian’s entire career, from his first album to his last, and the audience ate it all up excitedly.  It had been a long time since Curt had performed before such an enthusiastic audience.  It was such a thrilling experience that the high was almost enough to wipe out the fact that it was 12:30 at night by the time he left the stage.  The thrill was _definitely_ enough that he had to stop and give Arthur a long, deep, intense kiss as soon as he was off-stage.

            “Happy New Year, baby,” Curt said, as soon as their lips parted.

            “Happy New Year, love,” Arthur agreed.  It was an odd sensation, exchanging those words while _not_ having sex.

            They spent the whole limo ride home making out, and barely managed to get to the bedroom before shedding their clothes and beginning their wild love-making.


	26. Chapter 26

            Arthur would have been quite content—despite his usual practice—to sleep until at least ten.  The concert had been a wonderful thrill, but it _had_ gone rather late, and then of course they had had even more enthusiastic sex than usual, so he was quite exhausted.  Utterly happy, but quite exhausted.

            Unfortunately, Alicia had no courtesy or consideration, and brought Mick home by nine o’clock.

            Somehow, Curt had more energy than Arthur did—even though Curt was the one who had expended so much of his energy the night before—so he was the one who set about making them breakfast, as Arthur tried to wake himself up.  Curt had made extra-strong coffee, too, and the jolt of caffeine helped Arthur to present a more normal face to the world.  Or at least to Curt and his son, who naturally spent a full half-hour—at least—telling them every detail of what had happened while he was staying at Alicia’s house.

            Thankfully, Mick’s new movies, games and toys still had not been exhausted, and the boy largely kept himself occupied, allowing Arthur and Curt to have a rather sluggish New Year’s, still basking in the warmth of the previous night.  As they sat on the sofa, cuddling and watching over Mick’s activities, they talked in quiet tones of how wonderful 1988 was sure to be.  The country was finally to be rid of Martin Reynolds, after eight years of racism, homophobia and general plutocracy.  Hopefully, the rest of the country was as fed up as Arthur and Curt were, and would replace him with someone who might be able to undo some of the damage he had done.

            The fact that the year had begun with the dramatic—if only temporary—return of Brian Slade seemed like a fantastic sign of how fine the year would be.  The audience had been far more excited for that second half of the show than they had been for the first half, even though the performers on stage hadn’t changed.  They had to know of the relationship that used to exist between Curt and Brian, and they had still been thrilled to see the two of them together, despite the current decade’s distaste for love between men.  That proved that society was ready to return to the happier days of the early ‘70s, surely.

            This was going to be the year when it all started to get better.  Arthur was sure of it.

            Late that afternoon, they turned on the radio to find out what Mandy was going to say about the concert.  Largely because Curt wondered if Mandy had put any moves on Shannon while they were alone together in the audience.

            Surprisingly, her broadcast started with the sound of a protracted yawn.  “Well, I hope you all had as lovely a New Year’s Eve as I did, darlings,” she said after she finished yawning.  “If you weren’t in the audience at the concert with me, I hope you at least watched it on television.  Ah, but it was _such_ a lovely time!  Seeing Brian embracing his true self again…it just about gave me goosebumps!  Don’t laugh, my dears, but I was so excited by the whole experience that I suggested I could join them in spending the rest of the night ringing in the New Year, if you know what I mean.”  She chuckled, even as Arthur shuddered slightly.  Mandy had seriously suggested a threesome with Tommy and Shannon?  “Of course, Brian was all for it, you know, but his new little wifey, well, she’s a bit timid about such things.  Turned red, shook her head, and wouldn’t hear another word on the subject!  _Such_ a pity.  It would have been such a nice time.”

            “What’s she talking about?” Mick asked, looking at them curiously.

            “Nothing!” Arthur assured the boy.

            “It was surprisingly pleasant to see Brian and Curt together again, too,” Mandy went on.  “To be honest, I hadn’t been sure I’d like it, you know.  It’s true I don’t blame Curt for Brian losing interest in me, but I wasn’t sure I could stay objective about it in person.  If it had looked like they were thinking of having another fling, I just might have lost it a bit.  But nothing seemed to be further from their thoughts, and of course Curt brought his charming little boyfriend with him.”

            “Little,” Curt muttered, with a deep sigh.  Was he _still_ feeling inadequate because Arthur had grown taller than him in the ten years between their first meeting and their second one?

            “If you only saw them kissing after the concert—such a sweet shot of it on the broadcast!—you really missed out.”  Arthur’s heart nearly stopped.  They had shown that on live television?!  How utterly humiliating!  “Couldn’t see that pretty outfit very well with Curt in the way.  Such a lovely jacket!  I’d love to have one like it.  But I can’t borrow his; it would be _miles_ too big on me.  I’ll have to ask him where he had it made.”  Mandy laughed lightly.  “You know, he had Curt’s outfit made specially, too.  It’s an exact recreation of what Curt wore at a very special concert in London.  Do you know, my dears, that concert was the last time Curt, Brian and I were all under the same roof in the ‘70s?  It was really a beautiful time,” she sighed, “even if Brian did his best not to be seen.  I can’t take you back to 1974 with me, but I can at least let you hear what I did.  This is the live recording from that concert.”

            Curt’s performance of “Gimme Danger” at the Death of Glitter concert started playing.

            “That was too fucking close,” Curt snarled.  “If she had mentioned that you were there, too…”

            Arthur shook his head, sighing.  “She always makes too big a deal of your performance then,” he added.  “She missed most of the song.”

            “What?  She did?”

            Arthur nodded.  “She didn’t get there until the part where you were already on your back.”

            Curt scowled, and launched into some very inappropriate language that set Mick to laughing, even as Arthur wondered if he shouldn’t try covering the boy’s ears to protect him from it.  In the end, he decided to nudge Curt enough to make him pause, and then give him a mild reproach for starting the year with such ill will.

            With a chuckle, Curt leaned in and started whispering in his ear to remind him how they had actually started the year, and to tell him all the ways they could continue their earlier mood, if they'd only just head back into the bedroom…


	27. Chapter 27

            Mick started at his new school in the very first week of the new year.  Curt had to take him in the first day, to meet his teachers and principal, but after that, Alicia’s husband picked him up on the way to drop off their son, since Curt’s flat was in between Alicia’s place and the new school, more or less.

            The boy was, of course, miserable at having to resume going to school, and seemed a bit terrified of going to an entirely new school full of children he perceived to be impossibly rich, despite the fact that so long as he was living with his father, he was undoubtedly wealthier than at least half of them, if not a full three-quarters of them.

            Arthur was relieved that the boy wouldn’t be hanging about the flat all day.  It was exhausting, trying to keep Curt from swearing or engaging in entirely inappropriate behaviour all day long.  On top of that, he needed to get to work on his article for next month’s issue, and that was going to be much more easily accomplished without a child running about the place.  His article was, of course, about Reynolds’ proposed 27th Amendment, and what it would mean to America—and especially to the gay, lesbian and bisexual portion of the population—if it passed.

            Taken in the long view, Arthur could actually see potential advantages to the amendment.  Right now, it would be disastrous:  eight years of Martin Reynolds had already been eight years too many.  But with someone competent, compassionate and motivated to improve the lot of all people, not just their favoured few…being able to serve more than two terms might be the best thing for the country.  Given the fact that such people were rare in politics, it wasn’t even worth the risk of acknowledging the future possibility; better to focus exclusively on the horror that would be unleashed on _Freedoms_ ’ readership if the amendment passed in time for Reynolds to run for—and win—a third term in office.

            That being the case, the article flowed quickly, needing no more research than to look through all his past work on Reynolds and his homophobia, so Arthur had finished with the first draft before the week was out.

            Therefore, he was relaxing in the kitchen with a cup of tea when Alicia’s husband brought Mick home on Friday afternoon.  The boy had a split in his lip, and his face was scuffed up.  Alicia’s husband said that when he arrived at the school, he’d found Mick in a fist fight with a few of the boys from an older class—thankfully, no teachers had seen, so Mick was not in trouble—but that both Mick and Ken had refused to explain what had caused the fight.  Arthur thanked the man for his help, and once he was gone, got out some ice, wrapping it in a cloth napkin.

            “Hold this against your lip, and it should feel better,” Arthur said, handing it to the boy.  Mick did as he was told, but he was giving Arthur a dirty look as he did so.  That was really all the explanation he needed as to what had caused the fight.  Unfortunately, Curt was out at a meeting with the record label, so Arthur wasn’t sure what to do about the situation.  “Do you want to talk about what happened?  Or would you rather wait until your father gets home?” he added, wincing as he realised he suddenly sounded like someone’s mum.

            Mick shook his head, but his eyes were soon growing misty.  Then, rather abruptly, he threw the ice and napkin at Arthur.  “It’s your fault, isn’t it?!  You’re why my dad’s not like the other dads!”

            Arthur sighed.  “In a way, I suppose it is,” he admitted, “but it’s also your father’s fault that I’m not like most other men.”

            Mick was staring at him mistrustfully, and Arthur suddenly realised that if he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose all the goodwill he had built up with the child.  Possibly.  It was worth taking precautions to prevent that, in any case.

            “May I tell you a story?” Arthur asked, as he picked up the napkin and deposited the ice in the sink.

            Still watching uncertainly, Mick nodded.  When Arthur sat down at the table, the boy followed suit.  Well, that was a good sign, at any rate.

            “A long time ago, in the far-off land of Manchester, lived a skinny little boy whose arms and legs seemed too long for his body,” Arthur started.  If Mick remembered the name, it didn’t show on his face.  “His older brother teased him mercilessly, callin’ him Wart and other nasty names.  Soon his brother’s mates did, too, and then everyone at their whole school.  No matter what he did, everyone his age teased him, and all the adults insisted that they were disappointed in him, except his mum, who sometimes praised him for the pretty face that made all the other boys insult him and call him a girl.  As he got older and grew into his limbs a bit, the teasing became more subtle, but no one in the whole city liked him, not one bit—and Manchester’s quite near to New York in size.”  Nowhere near that size, but…a little exaggeration for effect was surely a forgivable offence.  “The fact that no one liked him didn’t stop him from fancyin’ them, though; he became infatuated with girls the same as anyone else.  But then one day he realised that he had come to fancy a boy.  He didn’t want to believe it at first, because he had always been told that that was wrong.  Until one day he heard a man named Brian Slade sayin’ that it was natural for everyone to like both men and women.  And Brian Slade was datin’ your father at the time.”  A bit of a fib, but it seemed simpler to compress time than to explain that Brian was already saying that _before_ he started seeing Curt.

            Mick’s little eyes widened in shock.  Had he honestly believed Arthur was Curt’s first boyfriend?  He wasn’t young enough to mistake Arthur for the older of the two…

            “That encouraged the boy to accept the way he felt, but when his family found out, he was driven out of the family home.  So he left Manchester and travelled to London.”

            “All by yours—himself?”

            Arthur chuckled.  Well, it was good that the boy realised he was talking about himself; it would have been rather alarming if he was so slow that he hadn’t picked up on that.  “All by himself,” he agreed.  Changing to the first person would be awkward, after going on this long in the third.  “When he arrived in London, he made the first friends he had ever had, and he even met your father, briefly,” Arthur went on, praying that the boy wouldn’t ask for any details about the encounter.  “At that time, people who fancied both men and women were popular in London, at least in a certain crowd.  But because Brian Slade did something to upset a lot of people, it started becomin’ less accepted.  Eventually, that poor lad from Manchester found himself not much more welcome in London than he had been in Manchester.  So he moved across the ocean to New York, thinkin’ that America was the land of freedom and opportunity.  Only it turned out that America was even less accepting than any place in England.”  Arthur hesitated.  How in the world was he supposed to end this story?  When people did this in the movies, it always felt so fluid and natural.  Why was his such a mess?

            “But then you met my dad again and fell in love?” Mick speculated.

            Arthur sighed.  “I think I’d been in love with him for a long time, even if I didn’t realise it yet.”

            “Um…”

            “But yes, that’s the happy ending to the story.  And yet, it’s not as happy as it should be, because so many people in this country don’t want us to be in love with each other.”

            Mick nodded.  “What did that Brian guy do to make everyone hate you?”

            “It’s not that they hated me,” Arthur started, then frowned.  “You see, what happened was that—no, how do I put this?  All right, do you know what men like your father and I are properly called?”

            “The older boys at school said that if my dad has a boyfriend, then he’s a fag.”

            “Absolutely not!  That’s a foul word that’s always an insult if it’s being applied to a person.  It’s all right for a cigarette, but not a person.”

            “A cigarette?” Mick repeated, sounding utterly baffled.

            “Your father and I are both bisexual, because we like both men and women,” Arthur explained, sidestepping the possibility of confusing the child with further British slang.  “And for a while in the early ‘70s, it was popular to be bisexual, because of Brian Slade.  He was a rock star, too, like your father.  Only after they broke up, Brian began to have a bit of a breakdown, and he wanted to take some time off.  His manager wouldn’t let him, so he faked his own death on stage, and when his fans found out he had been puttin’ them on, they were outraged, and turned against everything he had popularised, including bisexuality.”

            Mick blinked several times.  “I don’t understand at all,” he moaned.

            “I’m sorry; I suppose I’m not a very good storyteller.  The important thing for you to understand is that your father’s been bisexual for most of his life—I was younger than you are the first time Curt, uh…actually, maybe that’s not something I should be sharin’ with you right now.”  Especially since Curt’s earliest sexual acts had been with his own brother.  There was no way to explain that to anyone without making Curt sound either like a terrible person or a complete victim.

            “The first time he what?” Mick insisted.

            “Er…realised—no, acted on—well...”  Arthur’s voice trailed off, and he frowned.  “Let’s just say he’s been bisexual since I was younger than you are now.”

            Mick’s head tilted to one side.  “How much older than you is my dad?”

            “He’s ten years older than I am.”

            “How old were you when you met him in London?”

            “Seventeen,” Arthur answered, without thinking about it.  He really should have at least lied and said he was eighteen.  The boy might not know about sex now, but once he learned, it probably wouldn’t be hard for him to figure out that their brief first meeting had involved sex.   Eighteen was still underage in Britain, but Mick wouldn’t have any way of knowing that.  Seventeen was underage in the US as well as at home…

            “So it wasn’t you that made him like boys,” Mick concluded.

            “I told you he was datin’ Brian long before he met me, didn’t I?”

            Mick nodded.  “What was this Brian guy like?”

            Arthur coughed.  How in the world was he supposed to answer that?  He’d heard a great many stories about Brian—both at the time and ever since—but many conflicted with each other, and a large number of them were inappropriate for a small child.  Not to mention that Mick was likely to meet Tommy Stone at some point…  “He was very talented, but somewhat of a mystery to his fans,” Arthur finally said.  “You’d have to ask your father what he was like to someone who knew him up close.”

            “Did he make the same kind of music as Dad?”

            “Sort of.”  Arthur smiled.  “Would you like to hear some?”

            “Yeah!”

            “I’ll put on one of the albums he made while he was seein’ Curt.  A lot of the best guitar playin’ on those records is actually your father.”

            Mick grinned excitedly as Arthur got up and headed towards the living room.  But as Arthur was selecting the right record to play, he found himself checking the clock repeatedly.  If this music was playing when Curt got back…well, if it was, he’d just have to explain his reasons.  Surely Curt would understand.


	28. Chapter 28

            Record labels, in Curt’s experience, wanted the stars plucked from the skies and handed to them.  When they couldn’t have that, they weren’t satisfied if their stars couldn’t at least give them the moon.  Personally, he just wanted to moon them and have done with it.  Fortunately—or not—he was never allowed to meet with a record label mouthpiece without his manager present.  That tended to keep his pants in place.

            Still, this time the news had been good, and Alicia had managed to talk them down from their worst demand, so Curt was feeling confident as he went home.  His confidence turned into confusion when he opened the front door of the apartment and heard ‘Lipstick Traces’ playing on the stereo.  Who the fuck would want to come into his apartment and listen to one of Brian’s albums?

            To his surprise, there weren’t any guests:  Arthur was playing it for Mick.  Even after having it explained to him several times, Curt wasn’t entirely sure he approved.  It just didn’t seem necessary for Mick to know _that_ much about the earlier stages of his career.

            The irritation was enough that Curt forgot to share the big news from the meeting until hours later, over dinner.  Arthur had gone to get take-out from some Indian place that had just opened up, and though it was growing on Curt—assuming it didn’t end up burning his tongue off—Mick hated it, and so he was talking incessantly.  In his chattering, he eventually asked Curt where he had gone during the afternoon.

            “Oh, yeah, I didn’t say anything about the meeting, did I?” Curt asked, with a weak chuckle.  “I was meeting with the representative from the record label.”  Of course, then he had to explain what that meant, exactly.  Shouldn’t a seven year old have been able to figure that out?  He didn’t have brain damage because Candi was still shooting up when he was in the womb, did he?  The old man had mentioned something about Mick having to stay in the hospital for about a month after he’d been born to wean him off heroin…

            “So how did the meetin’ go?” Arthur asked.  “I mean, it was what we were expectin’, right?”

            Curt nodded.  “Yeah, they’re gonna send me on tour this summer.  We owe Alicia one, though; they kept trying to demand that you couldn’t come with me, but she convinced them it’d be okay as long as we kept a low profile.”

            “On tour where?” Mick asked curiously.  “I get to come, too, right?  You’re not gonna abandon me, are you?”

            Shit.  Curt hadn’t thought about the kid at all.  “The tour’s gonna go all over the US.”

            “Nowhere else?”  Arthur sounded surprised.

            “Nah, the sales haven’t been _that_ good,” Curt sighed.  “Well, they might add in some Canadian ports of call, but that’s it.”

            “But I can come, too, right?” Mick insisted, his eyes starting to look watery.

            “Of course you can,” Curt assured him, tousling his hair.

            Arthur looked at him with worried eyes, and didn’t say anything.  He didn’t have to.  They both knew perfectly well that a rock tour was no place for a kid.  But what was he supposed to have said?  He couldn’t just say 'no' and let the boy start wailing into his curry.  Though watering it down a bit might improve it, actually…

            That night, Curt and Arthur had a long talk about the tour and what they were going to do with Mick.  It was, theoretically, possible that Candi could get out of jail before her parole date, but…no, even in theory that wasn’t possible.  Curt had gotten out before he was eligible for parole, but that was because he was a fucking rock star.  Candi was just an anonymous junky.  One who used to fuck a rock star, but that didn’t count for much.

            After much debate, they decided to let it be for the moment.  After all, it was only January, and the tour wasn’t going to be until that summer.  Plenty of time for things to change, in one way or another.

            The next change in their lives wasn’t a good one.  While Arthur was working on what was supposed to be the final draft of his story, the newspaper one morning informed them that the House of Representatives, too, had passed Reynolds’ proposal to repeal the 22nd Amendment and allow him to have a third term as President.

            Curt barely saw Arthur for the next three days, he had to work so hard on re-writing his article to accommodate the new reality.

            As the 1988 election season began, Reynolds was so confident that the states would ratify the new amendment that he was openly on the Republican ballot as a candidate.  The arrogant motherfucker.  How much more did he want to torment people?

            Reynolds’ Committee for Cultural Renewal was going overboard, too.  As soon as the new amendment got past Congress, they started sending out ten times as many demands to managers and record labels.  Alicia didn’t listen to them, as usual, but the record label was another question.

            It seemed a very real possibility that there wouldn’t be any worry about what to do with Mick during the tour, because there might not _be_ any tour after all.

 

***

 

            Arthur had never before watched over the political news with so much heavy concern.  It was hard for him to dismiss the feeling of intense dread every time he heard anyone—pundit or average citizen alike—say how glad they would be to have another four years of Martin Reynolds.  Still, at least most New Yorkers—as far as he could tell from listening to people talking at fast food places or waiting for the subway—seemed to be opposed to Reynolds’ planned 27th Amendment.

            For whatever reason, the states had decided to ratify—or not—the new amendment as part of the primary elections.  Whether the voter got a Democratic or Republican ballot, it would include a place to vote for or against the new amendment to the US Constitution.  From what he’d seen in his research, this was pretty much unprecedented, and Arthur suspected the reasoning behind it was that Reynolds thought it gave the amendment the best chance of success, since voter turnout for the primaries was usually on the low side.

            The first primary election’s results were a vicious punch in the stomach:  Iowa not only chose to ratify the 27th Amendment, the Republican primary election was overwhelmingly in favour of Martin Reynolds.

            New Hampshire, on the other hand, was more promising.  The voters there refused the new amendment, and the Republican primary was nearly a tie between Reynolds and one of the other candidates.  As more primaries were held, Arthur began to feel like maybe there was light at the end of the tunnel after all:  other than Iowa, no other states were ratifying the new amendment.  However, most of the states’ Republican primaries were still selecting Martin Reynolds as their candidate.  How ironic.

            Only after fifteen states had refused to ratify the amendment did Reynolds admit defeat.  He pre-empted time on the evening news to read a speech to the nation, upbraiding them for refusing to admit that the 22nd Amendment had been a mistake, and announcing that given the failure of the 27th Amendment, he could no longer stand for the Republican candidacy, and so would be stepping down.  His Vice-President, Alan Blaine, would take his place on the ballot, and his victories in the earlier primaries would be transferred to the VP.  Arthur wasn’t entirely sure it was supposed to work that way, but he doubted anyone would complain:  Blaine, while his own person before becoming Vice-President, had become the political clone of Martin Reynolds back in 1980, and had yet to show any signs of reverting.

            Only after the 27th Amendment was defeated did the record label make any further moves about Curt’s tour for the summer.  Appallingly spineless of them, to wait and see which way the wind was blowing, but it did make business sense.  Alicia reported that the Committee for Cultural Renewal also calmed down considerably after the amendment was defeated, so perhaps part of the label’s reticence to move on the tour had to do with pressure from the committee.  Either way, they still wanted Arthur to stay behind in New York, something neither he nor Curt even wanted to think about.

            But towards the end of March, when Curt was finally given the dates for the tour, they were struck in the face with an unpleasant reality.  “They want the tour to start in May,” Curt told Arthur, upon his return from a lunch meeting to which Arthur had not been invited, as usual.

            “May?” Arthur repeated.  “But Mick won’t be gettin’ out of school until June.”

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah, that’s what Alicia said, too.”  He shook his head.  “She also said that a tour was no place for a seven year old, and that it’d be in everyone’s best interests for Mick to stay here with you.”

            “Best for everyone except you and me,” Arthur said glumly.

            “Yeah.”

            “Mick won’t like it, either.”

            “No, he won’t,” Curt agreed.  “I don’t know that he’d actually like the touring experience, either.”

            “How long’s the tour?”

            “Two months.”

            “Shite.”  Arthur sighed.  “If it was a shorter tour, we might be able to leave Mick with Alicia, but…two months?  He’d think we were abandonin’ him.”

            Curt nodded.  “I don’t like it, but I think she’s right.  You’re gonna have to stay here with Mick.”

            Arthur did his best to say that he agreed, but the words came out muted and garbled.  They hadn’t been apart for more than a week or so ever since they got involved.  Now they were going to be parted for two months?  In which time dozens—no, hundreds!—of attractive young people of both sexes would be throwing themselves at Curt?  Just thinking about it made Arthur want to cry.

            It must have been showing on his face, because Curt pulled him close and started whispering comforting words of love into his ear, assuring him that no one could ever come between them.  Normally, in situations where Curt had to take him to bed to placate his worries, Arthur was faking it long before sex was required.  Not today.  This time, he was genuinely fretting the whole time, and wasn’t actually terribly reassured even after they made love.

            Curt fell asleep promptly and seemed to sleep deeply, but Arthur lingered on the unpleasant edge between sleep and wakefulness, his few forays into actual sleep marked out by horrible nightmares of Curt leaving him forever to sink into misery and decay.


	29. Chapter 29

            It wasn’t until the beginning of May that Curt was ready to break the news about the tour to Mick.  Mick was suffering enough just trying to deal with his new school; transferring in the middle of the year had made him an oddity, and the fact that he had accidentally let slip to his fellow students that his dad had a boyfriend only made everything much, much worse.  But he’d only come home with a beat-up face the once, so maybe most of the other kids didn’t know.  He didn’t go over to the other boys’ houses very often, though, and the few times he did, it was usually just to go hang out with Alicia’s son Ken.  That didn’t prove anything, since Alicia had obviously taught him there was nothing wrong with men loving men, or at least to turn a blind eye to it.

            One Friday afternoon, Curt called out for pizza, and made sure the kitchen was well stocked with cookies, ice cream and stuff like that, then called Mick into the living room to have a talk.  Mick was instantly suspicious.  He’d inherited Curt’s ability to guess when someone wasn’t on his side, evidently.

            “Mick, I want to talk to you about this summer,” Curt told him.

            “Is Mom getting out of prison yet?”

            “No, Mick.  She’s not even eligible for parole for another year,” Curt sighed.  And based on what the guards had had to say lately when he brought Mick to visit her, she wasn’t likely to be getting out even then.  In fact, they’d all been acting a bit cagey somehow, like they were keeping something from him.

            Mick just watched him uncertainly.  Kid wasn’t gonna make this easy…

            “I have to go out on tour to promote my latest album,” Curt explained.  “You heard about that earlier, remember?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Well, my tour starts later this month.  When you’re still gonna be in school.”

            “Do I get to get out of school early?” Mick asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

            Curt did his best to repress his need to sigh.  “No, Mick.  You have to stay here and keep going to school.”

            “All by myself?”

            “No, Arthur’s gonna stay with you.”

            “Won’t you be lonely if you go away all by yourself?” Mick asked.

            Curt smiled sadly, pulling his son into a hug.  “I’m gonna be crazy lonely,” he assured the boy.  “But I’ll call all the time.  Every night.”

            Mick’s little arms wrapped around him.  “I don’t want you to go away, too, Daddy!”

            “It’s only for a couple of months.”

            Mick tried persuading him not to leave, and he tried explaining that if he was gone for all of June then he’d miss Mick’s birthday, and he tried getting angry about it, and he tried crying, and he tried persuading Curt to bring him along, but somehow Curt was able to maintain the strength to hold the line.  Though he felt a bit like crying himself before it was through.

            The conversation finally petered out only when the pizza was delivered.  After they ate, Mick was given altogether too much ice cream, and too many cookies, and set down before his favorite movie, so Curt and Arthur could talk in the dining room.

            “Alicia brought over the itinerary today,” Curt explained, handing him the schedule.  “It’s pretty slow-paced, really.  Four shows a week.”

            Arthur shuddered, making Curt laugh.  “Not slow in my opinion,” he muttered.

            “Back in the day, I used to do seven cities in a week,” Curt laughed.  “Of course, I was living entirely on heroin and adrenaline back then…”

            “So let’s never call them the good old days,” Arthur insisted.

            “Did I say that?”

            “No, but that’s usually the next step.”

            Curt sighed, and shook his head.  “I’m not gonna say that,” he promised.  After all, back then, he hadn’t found Arthur yet…

            “How often will you be able to call?”

            “That’s the thing,” Curt said, with a grimace.  “I told Mick I’d call every day.  But it’s gonna be hard to call after a concert.”

            “You could call before the concerts,” Arthur suggested.  “In the mornin’.  Or about lunchtime.”

            “Yeah.  Only Mick won’t be home.”

            “After you and I talk, I can hang up and you can call back to leave him a message on the machine,” Arthur suggested.

            “I suppose so.”  Curt took hold of Arthur’s hand, squeezing it tightly.  “I should’ve told them I couldn’t go at all, shouldn’t I?”

            “I don’t think so,” Arthur assured him.  “After all, if you did, you’d never be given another concert tour again.  That’s not what any of us wants.”

            Curt sighed.  “You don’t think I’m getting too old for this line of work?”

            “Of course not!”  Arthur got up and moved closer, leaning down to give Curt a kiss.  “Older men than you are still goin’, you know.”

            “Yeah, but I’m not exactly a Rolling Stone,” Curt said, with a grimace.  Candi’s taste in names made the statement feel like a self-inflicted slap in the face.

            “Maybe not, but you’re much sexier,” Arthur replied, giving him another, deeper kiss.

            “You ready to back that up with more than a little lip?”

            “Any time, love,” Arthur promised, kissing him again.

 

***

 

            Curt’s departure on his tour was painful for everyone involved.  Mick had been so upset at the idea that he had insisted on sleeping in their bedroom with them the night before, thus unwittingly robbing Arthur of his last chance to have sex for two months.  Of course, everyone had cried as Curt was leaving the flat.  Thankfully, Curt was too proud to let them come with him to where the tour bus was waiting to pick him up.  He didn’t want his back-up band to see him crying.  Especially since he was crying over being parted from his boyfriend and son.  The son part they might not have batted an eyelid at, but Arthur preferred to think that most of the tears were actually over being parted from him, not Mick.  Even if it wasn’t true, he had to believe it, or he might go mad.

            Of course, he knew that a tour was not actually so pleasant as it was sometimes made out to be.  He had gone with Curt on his last tour, and it had been stressful for both of them.  And yet, it had also been thrilling to watch Curt on stage night after night, listening to those beautiful love songs and knowing that they had been written about him.

            The fourth day Curt was gone, he called in the afternoon, before the night’s concert, letting him talk to Mick, but then he also called again, after the concert was over.  Arthur hastily answered the phone on the first ring.

            “I already miss you,” Curt told him as soon as he answered.

            “I missed you the minute you walked out the door,” Arthur replied, settling down on the bed.  “Why are you callin’ so late, though?  You might have woken Mick.”

            “I just can’t stop thinking about you.  You know what I’d do if I was at home right now?”

            “What would you do?” Arthur asked.  He knew the basic answer, but he wanted to hear all the details, everything Curt was thinking, so he could shut his eyes and wish it was really happening.

            “I’d have you get on all fours on the bed, and I’d slip my tongue in,” Curt told him, his voice husky.  “I know how much you love that.  And I love the little panting moans you make when I do it.”

            “Curt…”

            “When I got bored of that, then I’d start fucking you.  Hard and fast—no other prep, just shove it right in.”

            Arthur laughed gently.  “No, you wouldn’t, love.  You’re always gentle with me, even when you’re drunk.  You’d never do anything that could hurt me.”

            “So what would I do instead, then?” Curt countered.

            Shutting his eyes, Arthur did his best to describe Curt’s usual practice in meticulous, loving detail.  The longer he talked about it, the harder it got to go on.

            Curt let out a low sound that might have been a sigh or a moan.  “I’m so hard right now,” he said.

            “Me, too,” Arthur assured him.  He was already in his pyjamas, so at least it wasn’t uncomfortable, but…

            “Are you touching it?” Curt asked, with an eagerness in his voice.

            “Yeah.”

            “No, you’re not.  I am,” Curt insisted.

            Arthur half-laughed, half-moaned.  “And I’m touchin’ yours, love.”

            “Yeah.”

            In the all-too-brief conversation that followed, Arthur struggled to match his actions to the ones Curt was describing, and he knew that Curt was matching his actions to Arthur’s words.  It didn’t take long before they were both beyond talking, apart from moaning each others’ names.

            After he hung up the phone, the satisfaction of his orgasm gave way to a certain amount of despair as Arthur reflected on what had just happened.  Unless something changed, phone calls like the one they had just had were the only hope he had of sex for the next two months.  And while Curt was currently satisfied to pine for Arthur, how long was that going to be the case?  Eventually, wouldn’t he succumb to the countless temptations on hand?

            Of course he would.  How could he not?  But so long as he was willing to leave them behind, to come back to the life they had shared for the last four years, Arthur would forgive him.  He’d have to; he couldn’t go back to living on his own, to being without Curt.  Besides, as long as Curt stuck to girls while he was away, it wouldn’t feel quite so much like a betrayal.  Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it doesn't seem like the phone sex was in any way ripping off eclectictsunami's "Five Days" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5407571). That wasn't my intention--it seemed logical that they'd resort to phone sex pretty quickly--but it's impossible not to be at least subconsciously influenced by things you read, right?


	30. Chapter 30

            While Curt was gone, Arthur found himself relying on Alicia’s parenting advice even more than they had been relying on it before.  After all, Curt was the boy’s father, and Mick had been so happy to finally have his father in his life that he’d been glad to overlook many little flaws in Curt’s parenting skills.  But Arthur was no one to the boy, really:  he wasn’t even a step-father in any traditional sense.

            Curt’s absence had actually cut off Mick from _both_ his parents.  Every adult involved had agreed that it might be risky for Arthur to bring Mick to the prison to visit his mother, so Mick was suddenly without any blood relations in his life.  Arthur _had_ at least taken him to visit the Liebermanns, but Mrs. Liebermann was still ailing—Arthur suspected it wasn’t so much an illness as such, but merely old age taking its toll—so the visits couldn’t be lengthy.

            Visiting them had given him an idea for a fantastic story for _Freedoms_ , though.  Homosexuals were also sent to concentration camps in Nazi Germany, but most non-academic articles that focussed on the events of WWII or on the lives of the survivors rarely addressed any sufferers other than the Jews.  Understandable, since they had been the vast majority of those being persecuted, tortured and murdered, but someone needed the remedy the silence about the other groups.  _Freedoms_ was no place to talk about the persecution of Gypsies, but it had been designed as a platform for all forms of discussion of homosexuality.

            Ideally, such an article would want to have interviews of survivors, but the only Holocaust survivors in New York City that Arthur had been able to locate were Jewish ones, and none of the ones he had contacted had been able to point him to any homosexual survivors.  The best he’d been able to do was interview a few veterans who had liberated the concentration camps and seen the suffering German homosexuals.  One of the veterans insisted that he hadn’t wanted to free the homosexuals, because he felt they belonged there.  But one of the others had felt just as sorry for them as for everyone else, and another had been a closeted homosexual himself, so it had been as agonizing for him as it had been for Jewish soldiers in the American army, probably much more so, since he couldn’t admit to anyone why their suffering affected him so.

            Because it was such a complex topic, Arthur was getting an extra long time to write the article; it was going to appear in the July issue, an appropriately complex piece of Americana for the 4th of July.  As he was working on it, he was still following leads to try and locate any survivors who had moved to the United States.  It was in the first week of June that he finally got a bit of a breakthrough.  A contact he had in the Immigrations and Naturalisation Services office—the same chap who had helped him out with his own paperwork, in fact—managed to pull some old files for him, and locate a homosexual Holocaust survivor who had immigrated to the US, and was still alive and well.  Unfortunately, he was living in San Francisco, so unless Arthur wanted to interview him over the phone, that wasn’t terribly useful.

            The same day he heard back from the fellow at the INS, Mick came into the bedroom at bedtime, crying.  “I want Dad to come home,” he whimpered.

            “I want him to come back, too,” Arthur assured him.

            “But I’m lonely!”

            “I am, too.”

            Mick started crying harder, until Arthur felt like there was no choice but to give the boy a hug to try and calm him down.  He had, up to this point, been very reticent to touch the boy beyond a light pat on his hair, or holding his hand.  It was all right for Curt, since they were related by blood, but Arthur…if anyone saw him hugging a little boy, they’d probably call him a paedophile and lock him up.  Especially in Reynolds’ America.

            Though the boy eventually stopped crying, he refused to go back to his own room, and insisted on sleeping in Curt’s spot in the bed, as if he was a dog missing its master.  That made Arthur all the more uncomfortable, both because of what other people would think and because it would mean that if Curt called late at night, the phone sex that had become almost a ritual over the last two weeks would be off the table.

            More pressing in his mind was the worry of just what Mick was going to be like by late July, if he was already this upset in early June.

            Long before he could worry about that, Arthur was confronted with an entirely new worry.  Monday of the final week of his school—the second week of June—Mick brought home a note addressed to his father, explaining the need to schedule a teacher-parent meeting to discuss the child’s progress.

            The next morning, Arthur called the number on the paper, and explained to the receptionist that Mick’s father was out of town, and wouldn’t be back until July.  “Well, what about his mother?” the receptionist asked.

            “She’s in jail,” Arthur replied.

            “Oh.”  An uncomfortable pause.  “Just who am I speaking to?” she asked.  “What’s your relationship to the student?”

            Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “My name’s Arthur Stuart.  My relationship to Mick is…I…I’m not sure how to put it.  A bit…I guess I’m a bit like a step-father.”

            “You’re involved with his mother?”

            “No, with his father.”

            “Oh.”  An even longer pause.  “Let me just put you on hold a minute,” the woman said.  A click was followed by a tinny recording of children’s songs.

            Eventually, the recording went away.  “This is Dan Petersen, Vice-Principal,” a man’s voice said.  “And you are…Mr. Seward?”

            “Stuart,” Arthur corrected.

            “You’re calling in regards to the student Mick Wild?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The man on the other end of the phone sighed.  “We were informed of his father’s…unusual home life…at the time he enrolled, but Mrs. Richardson assured us we would only be dealing with the father himself.”

            “I’m sorry.  Curt’s out on tour.  We didn’t know he’d be needed to have a meeting with the school’s faculty.”

            “This is highly irregular.”  A cold, _harrumph_ of a noise came through the phone line.  “We’ve never accepted a student with a homosexual parent before.  There isn’t any precedent.  To be frank, if his father wasn’t an important popular musician, we would not have allowed his enrolment at all.”

            “I understand that,” Arthur lied, “but I’m not sure where that leaves us at the present moment.  Are we to ignore the teacher-parent meeting then?”

            “No, looking at his file, it’s important that the meeting be held,” Petersen replied, his voice thick with unpleasant meaning.  “Perhaps his father could call the teachers, or…”  He sighed.  “I’m afraid I’ll have to discuss this with both the teachers and the principal himself.  Can you be reached at the number on file, or are you at work?”

            “You can reach me at the home number, yes.”  A light, insulting chuckle from the other man prompted Arthur to launch into an awkward explanation of the fact that he was _not_ unemployed, but was a journalist who did most of his work from home, due to the limited office space at the magazine where he worked.  The other man was not actually interested, and had hung up long before Arthur finished his explanation.

            Arthur spent most of the morning waiting to hear back from Mick’s school.  When the phone finally rang, it was Vice-Principal Petersen again.  “The ultimate decision,” he informed Arthur, “is that you will be permitted, just this once, to take the place of the father at the parent-teacher conference.  However, in the interest of ensuring that there is a responsible party present, we are asking Mrs. Richardson to be in attendance as well.”

            Arthur was so stunned by the brazen insult that he wasn’t sure how to reply, and the Vice-Principal was able to hang up again without being taken to task for it.  When he finally recovered, he dialled Alicia’s office, telling her secretary that it was vitally important that he talk to her right away.

            Alicia picked up almost immediately after the secretary put him on hold.  “I figured I’d be hearing from you,” she said, in an embarrassed tone.  “If it’s any consolation, this is nothing compared to the hoops I had to jump through to get them to take Mick in the first place.”

            “It should be, but it really isn’t,” Arthur told her.

            “I’m afraid I had to let them believe that I’m legally the boy’s secondary guardian before they’d take him,” Alicia sighed.  “Honestly, I was as surprised as anyone else at their reluctance.  No matter what the school’s administrators want to believe, Mick isn’t the only child at that school who has a parent in a same-sex relationship.”

            “Could you put me in touch with some of the other parents?” Arthur asked.  “Might make a good story for the magazine.  I wouldn’t print any names, of course.”  He’d never realised before just how hard it was for two men to raise a child together.  Perhaps others didn’t know, either.  It was just the kind of injustice that _Freedoms_ tended to focus on, in any case.

            “I’ll see if I have their numbers around anywhere, but I can’t promise anything.”


	31. Chapter 31

            The parent-teacher conference had been scheduled for Wednesday, even though the semester wouldn’t officially be over until Friday.  Arthur—with Alicia’s somewhat unwelcome accompaniment—was meeting with the homeroom teacher, Miss Sandra Jackson.  Because the meeting was at seven in the evening, Mick was at Alicia’s house, being looked after by Alicia’s husband.

            Miss Jackson was evidently a confirmed spinster, being about sixty years of age, and possessing the kind of grim demeanour that Arthur remembered all too well on many of his own teachers.  That did not make him feel any more comfortable as she gave him a narrow-eyed stare over the rims of her glasses.

            “You’re who, exactly?” she asked, even though Arthur was quite sure it must have all been explained to her in copious detail earlier.

            “Arthur Stuart,” he said, offering her his hand.  She didn’t shake it.  “I’m...livin’ with Mick’s father, Curt.”

            “Living in sin is a terrible example for a young child.”

            “Men aren’t allowed to marry each other,” Arthur countered, though he rather doubted they’d be married even if it _was_ legal.  That seemed like a step further than Curt would ever want to go.

            “The boy’s mother is currently in jail for drug abuse,” Alicia cut in, “so no matter what kind of example he’s getting with his father, it’s far superior to what he had been getting from his mother.”

            “A child with no proper parents ought to be placed in foster care,” Miss Jackson announced.

            “Mick _has_ a proper parent,” Arthur pointed out.  “Curt is his father, and he’s been doin’ all he can to provide the kind of responsible father figure that he never had himself.”

            The woman made an unpleasant, unconvinced noise, then turned her attention to a folder on the desk in front of her.  Opening it, she lifted a sheet of paper to the tip of her nose to stare at it, then placed it back down on the desk in front of her.  “The boy is ill-adjusted, and doesn’t play well with others,” she announced.  “This is due to his poor family life.”

            “It says he’s very friendly and open with his classmates,” Arthur corrected her.  He could read it quite plainly, even though it was upside down from his angle.  “Maybe you need a better pair of glasses?” he suggested, with a friendly smile.

            Miss Jackson glared at Arthur fiercely, but he refused to back down.  He would never be able to live with himself if he let some old woman bully him.  Besides, the fact that she was so reminiscent of so many of his old primary school teachers inspired in him the rebellion he had never had the nerve for back when he was Mick’s age.  He used to lose to women like her all the time; he would be damned if he did so again now that he was an adult!

            Hastily, Alicia grabbed the sheet of paper out of the file, and looked it over.  “Eager to make new friends,” she read aloud, “doesn’t easily accept rejection.  Unfamiliar with most of the games played by his classmates, he tends to introduce low class alternatives.”  Alicia lowered the paper again, and smiled happily at Miss Jackson.  “This seems like a very fond report,” she said. “Much better than what you wrote for my Ken.”

            Miss Jackson scowled at her, then turned to look at Arthur.  “The boy has no will to learn, and cannot grasp even the most simple concepts.”

            Given the possible effects of pre-natal heroin exposure, Arthur couldn’t write off the latter accusation.  “He shows a great deal of will to learn at home,” he assured her.  “I helped him study before comin’ to school, and he was very eager to learn.  If he’s not workin’ here, maybe it’s the teaching that’s the problem.”

            “Arthur, behave yourself!” Alicia snapped at him.  Shite, she was starting to treat _him_ like a kid, too.  Then she looked at the paper in front of her.  “It says here that Mick is easily frustrated by subjects he doesn’t understand at a first attempt.”  She shook her head.  “That’s hardly a lack of will to learn.  It’s just a matter of needing to apply a little more attention to his work.  I’ll make sure his teacher next year is aware of it.”

            Miss Jackson clearly resented Alicia’s calm intervention, but the longer the meeting went on, the more Arthur appreciated it.  If he’d been alone with her, it would have gotten very ugly, very quickly.  Thankfully, he wasn’t the violent type, but…

            By the end of the meeting, Arthur had been repeatedly informed of the fact that Mick was not fitting in perfectly with his schoolmates, but he knew that already.  Likewise, he was told what he already knew about Mick’s school work:  that sometimes his intense effort did not provide fruitful results, and sometimes it did.  Ultimately, the entire meeting was just a frustrating waste of his time and Alicia’s.

            After the meeting was over, Alicia drove him back to her place to pick up Mick, and was going to drive them back to the flat, but Arthur suggested dropping them at a department store.  Alicia was confused, but did as he asked.

            “What’s going on?” Mick asked, looking at Arthur curiously.

            “Now that I’ve seen what you’ve been puttin’ up with for the past five months, I thought I’d buy you something to make up for it,” Arthur told him.  “Nothing too fancy.  Just a game or a little action figure.”

            Mick smiled widely, and held his hand as they went into the store.

 

***

 

            Friday’s show was murder.  Not that it was any harder than any other show on the tour—it was the same exact shit, after all—but Curt’s energy was rapidly flagging.  He hadn’t realized just how much of his motivation these days was provided solely by knowing that the one most important fan in the world was standing just off stage, waiting for a post-show kiss right there in stage wings, and then for a post-show fuck as soon as they got home.

            Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was even going to be able to do the whole tour without Arthur.  Phone sex wasn’t a very good replacement.

            He couldn’t talk to anyone about the problem, though.  Everyone in the band would give him the same advice:  they’d say he should go fuck some random fan.  It’d be one thing if they’d arranged that as a possibility.  If they had talked about that and Arthur had said “sure, it’s okay for you to have a quick shag with some girl as long as you don’t care about her,” then that’d be something he could do, maybe.  But they hadn’t, and now he’d be betraying Arthur if he did it.  Not that he wanted to fuck some random fan anyway.

            There was only one fan Curt wanted to fuck, but he was back in New York, and Curt was here in…wherever the fuck he was.  He’d already gotten to the point where it didn’t even matter.

            It was gonna be late as hell back on the east coast, but Curt didn’t care.  He was horny, and he wanted the only release available to him.  So before he’d let the bus take off to drive all night to get them to wherever they were performing tomorrow night, he locked the door to his dressing room, sat down, unzipped his fly, and dialed his own phone number.

            “Hello?” Arthur answered after the first ring.  He sounded so eager, so happy, and yet he hadn’t had the nerve to give an answer intended just for Curt.  So typical of Arthur to want to cover his ass.

            “What are you wearing, baby?” Curt asked.  Cut right to the chase so he could get off faster, before the band started banging on the door and yelling at him to get moving.

            Arthur laughed uncomfortably.  “Curt, now’s not really the right time to—” he started, quietly.

            “C’mon, I don’t have much time, Arthur,” Curt insisted.  “If I don’t get off soon, I’m gonna lose it!”

            “Is that Daddy?”  Mick’s voice was just barely audible from the other end of the phone.

            “Fucking hell, what’s he doing still up?!” Curt shouted.  It was long past Mick’s bedtime where Curt was, and he was definitely not in the same time zone they were.

            “Mick’s been very lonely lately,” Arthur told him, “and he’s been wantin’ to sleep in here so he wouldn’t be alone.”

            Curt did his best not to be jealous of his own son.  Even though the rotten kid was in _his_ bed with _his_ boyfriend.  _And_ he was the only reason Arthur wasn’t on the tour already!

            “Lemme talk to Dad!”  Mick’s voice was louder, like he was shouting.

            “All right, but just for a little while,” Arthur said.

            “Daddy!  It’s me!” Mick exclaimed giddily into the phone.

            Fuck.  Curt wasn’t going to get off tonight at all, was he?  “Hi, kiddo,” Curt said, trying not to sigh.  “Have you been good?  Not making any trouble for Arthur?”

            “I’ve been super, super, _super_ good!” Mick assured him.  “And school got out today, so I can come join you, right?”

            “Huh?”

            “I don’t wanna be here all by myself!  I wanna be with you, Daddy.”

            “Uh…that’s…hey, let me talk to Arthur, okay?”

            “But you’ve barely talked to me at all,” Mick said, his voice pouting.

            “Yeah, but if you’re gonna come join me, then we can talk all you want, right?”

            “Oh, okay.”

            “Curt?”  Arthur’s voice sounded concerned.  “You’re not seriously thinkin’ of us flyin’ out to join you, are you?”

            “Well…we probably shouldn’t, but…God, I need to see you.”

            There was a pause filled only with the sound of Arthur breathing rapidly.  He was probably blushing, and had that wonderful, giddy smile on his face.  Curt wished he could see it right now with his eyes, instead of just his imagination.  “I need to see you, too,” Arthur finally said.

            “So if Mick’s done with school, then it’ll be okay, right?  You can fly out and join me.”

            “Are you sure it’s all right?  A rock tour is no place for a child,” Arthur reminded him.

            “I can handle it!” Mick squeaked.

            “The tour’s gonna dissolve if I can’t fuck you soon,” Curt promised, his voice little more than a rough whisper.

            “Oh, Curt…”  A nervous titter of a laugh.  “I feel the same way, love.”

            “So it’s settled, then?”

            “Yeah.”

            Curt nodded.  “Okay, hang on a second.  I gotta find out where we’re performing on Tuesday.”  He set down the phone, got up, and got halfway to the door before he realized his fly was still undone.  That would have been humiliating!  After zipping it up, he opened the door of his dressing room and caught the attention of the road manager, who was supervising the pack-up of the equipment nearby.  “Hey, where are we gonna be on Tuesday?”

            The road manager consulted a list on a clipboard.  “St. Louis,” he said.  “Why?”

            “Make sure we leave right away after the concert tomorrow night, so we’ll be in town by first thing Sunday morning,” Curt told him.

            “Why?” the other man repeated.

            “Someone’s flying in to meet us.”

            “It better not just be your boyfriend,” the road manager grumbled.

            “Fuck you.”  Curt closed the door again, and went back over to the phone, picking it up.  “Okay, the Tuesday night concert is in St. Louis, so you can get a plane into town on Sunday morning, and we’ll have plenty of time before the concert.”

            “What does that matter?” Arthur asked.  “If we ‘ave time or not?  You’re not goin’ to make us fly right back again, surely!”

            Curt laughed.  “Of course not!  But it’s gonna be hell on both of you if you just get shoved right into a one night town.  Besides, we’ll have more time for uninterrupted sex this way.”

            Arthur chuckled.  “I should ‘ave known that was what you were thinkin’.  But don’t you think it’ll be hard to get a flight so suddenly?”

            “You gotta be kidding.  St. Louis is a hub town,” Curt laughed.  “Every TWA flight in the universe goes through there.  You’ll have no trouble getting a ticket.”

            “In the universe?” Arthur repeated, his voice laughing.  “I had no idea they had flights off this planet.”

            “Sure.  They’ve got starships and all that,” Curt laughed.  But then his smile faded a bit.  “Hey, look, unless you can talk Alicia into coming, too…”  He paused, then sighed.  “You’d better book Mick’s ticket as Mick Stuart, not Mick Wild.  Tell everyone he’s your son, so no one’ll give you any grief.  And get him to agree to lie about it, okay?  People can get pretty antsy when they see a man and a child who don’t look like each other in an airport together.”

            “Yeah,” Arthur agreed.  “Could be worse, though.  Imagine if I was black.”

            “God, that’d be a nightmare.  You’d _have_ to get Alicia to come if that was the case.  And you’d have to sit somewhere far away from them.”  Curt sighed.  “This country sucks sometimes.”

            “At least we’ll be rid of Reynolds soon.”

            “Yeah, thank God.  Imagine if they’d actually ratified that fucking amendment!”  Curt shook his head, disgusted by the fact that they were seriously discussing _politics_.  He was getting tainted by Arthur, apparently.  He shook his head, trying to dismiss the entire subject of politics.  “Hey, any chance you can send Mick back to his own room so we can get off?” Curt whispered into the phone.

            “I don’t think so, love,” Arthur responded equally quietly.  “But we’ll ‘ave the real thing in a few days.”

            “I’ll be counting the minutes,” Curt promised.  “I can’t sleep at night if I don’t hear you breathing beside me.”


	32. Chapter 32

            As much as Arthur was looking forward to being reunited with Curt so much sooner than anticipated, he was also put in quite a bind by it.  His story was expected while he would be away, and he would have no way of submitting it properly.  Perhaps if he could borrow a typewriter from the novelist across the hall, he could type up his drafts and borrow a fax machine on the road to transmit the drafts back to Ms. Forsyth.  There would have to be places _somewhere_ that would let him use their facsimile machine…though he wasn’t entirely sure that _Freedoms_ had one to receive it.  He’d have to ask about that.

            He was also entirely unconvinced that it would be as easy as Curt suggested to get airplane tickets at such short notice.  Not to mention that he hadn’t had a chance to stop the mail or the papers, and the utility bills would come due while they were away, too.  At least Curt actually owned the flat, so there was no rent to worry about, but that was a small consolation in the face of everything else that would have to be done.

            Still, first things first.  There was no point in worrying about any of it if he couldn’t get the tickets.  Setting Mick to watching television, Arthur closed himself in the bedroom with a telephone directory.  With luck, Curt would be right about the frequency of TWA flights to St. Louis, but Arthur didn’t want to trust to luck.  Still, it made sense to start with that airline, so he found the number of its ticket desk.

            “Hi, yes, I was wonderin’ if I could get tickets from New York City to St. Louis, Missouri,” Arthur told the woman who answered the phone.  “For tomorrow morning, if possible.”

            “Shouldn’t be a problem,” the woman replied, her voice quite light, as if she wanted to laugh.  “How many are travelling?”

            “Two.  Me and my son.”  Arthur hated lying about it, but he knew Curt had been right about the necessity of the lie.

            “One moment, please.”  Arthur could faintly hear the clicks of a keyboard on the other side of the line.  “Yes, there are several flights you could take.  How does an 8:30 departure sound?”

            “What time would that ‘ave us gettin’ in?”

            “About 9:30, local time.  Going west, the time zones work in your favour.”

            That would give them almost a full day with Curt, giving Mick plenty of time with his father before bed, so Arthur and Curt could have plenty of uninterrupted time to make love.  “That sounds excellent,” Arthur agreed.  “Can you book us passage now, and I pay in the morning when I pick up the tickets?”

            “Of course, sir.”  The woman needed various things like names and addresses, but it was soon all arranged.  She seemed a bit taken aback that he didn’t need return tickets, though.

            Once the arrangements were all made, Arthur steeled himself and dialled the number for the _Freedoms_ office.  “You’ve reached _Freedoms_.  This is Libby.  How can I help you?”

            “Hi, Libby.  It’s Arthur.”

            “Oh, hi!  Are you dying of loneliness yet?” Libby asked, with a laugh.

            “Just about.  May I talk to Ms. Forsyth, please?”

            Libby giggled.  “You’re always so polite!  Is that an English thing, or are you just too nice for your own good?”

            “Er…what?”

            “I’ll see if she’s available.  What did you want to talk to her about, anyway?”

            Arthur laughed uncomfortably.  “Actually, I’ll be joinin’ Curt on tour…”

            “Ooh, lucky!  I wish I had a girlfriend who was a rock star.”

            “If Teresa Garcia ever comes back to the US, I’ll try to introduce you,” Arthur promised.

            “I’ll hold you to that!” Libby exclaimed.  “Anyway, hang on, and I’ll get Ms. Forsyth for you.”

            Arthur was only on hold for about thirty seconds before Ms. Forsyth picked up.  “Tell me Libby was mistaken about why you’re calling,” she said sternly.

            Arthur cleared his throat.  “Ah…no, she’s not…”

            “Exactly what makes you think you can get out of work for two months?”

            “I wasn’t plannin’ on it.  I was hopin’ maybe I could fax in my story on the road,” Arthur explained.

            Ms. Forsyth let out a protracted noise of irritation.  “I suppose that’s better than nothing.  But I don’t like it.”

            “Yes, I understand that.  But it’s possible I might be able to get a really top notch extra source for the July article that I can’t get from here,” Arthur added.  “And I had some ideas about…oh.”

            “What?”

            “Actually, the idea I had for the August issue won’t work if I’m out of town.  It’d be more timely in September anyway.”

            “What is this idea?”

            “About the difficulties faced by same-sex couples tryin’ to raise children.  I have a lead on some couples around here who—”

            “Are you trying to tell me that you and your idiot boyfriend have adopted a child?”

            Arthur bit back a retort defending Curt’s intelligence.  “That wasn’t my point,” he said as calmly as he could.

            “But you did?”

            “No.  The boy is Curt’s actual son.  But we recently had to take custody of him when—”

            Ms. Forsyth cut him off with a string of verbal abuse.  The woman really excelled at being abrasive.  “Why do I keep sending you paycheques?” she finally concluded by asking.

            “How about all the letters people keep writin’ in about how much they love my articles?” Arthur laughed.

            “How about the time you almost got us sued into non-existence?” Ms. Forsyth countered.

            “By providin’ a once-in-a-lifetime scoop that had eluded every major newspaper and magazine in the world?  How many more copies did the issue with the Brian Slade article sell than every other issue?”

            “Hardly the point.”

            “You had to print it up again.  Twice.  And if that’s not the point, then what is?” Arthur insisted.

            “You can’t just write your own ticket, no matter how popular one or two of your articles may have been,” Ms. Forsyth said.  “Just what is this extra source you might have lined up?”

            Arthur quickly explained about the man in San Francisco.  “Lookin’ at Curt’s itinerary, I won’t get to San Francisco in time to speak to him and get the article finished in time, but I might be able to convince him to meet me somewhere in between.  Arizona or New Mexico, maybe.”

            “ _If_ you can interview him, and _if_ he provides some really beneficial information, then I suppose I’ll allow it,” Ms. Forsyth said.  “If not, you can consider July’s article your last.”  With that, she hung up.

            Arthur sighed.  Not for the first time, he found himself missing the _Herald_.  His co-workers hadn’t respected him and had had no idea about his true sexuality, but at least his editor had been friendly and honest.  This was at least the fifth time Ms. Forsyth had threatened to fire him, but she never followed through on the threat.  Libby assured him that coming from Ms. Forsyth, the threat of being fired was like a compliment, but it was hard to look at it that way.

            Miserably, he looked through his files and found the information sent to him by the INS.  He checked the clock to make sure it wouldn’t be too early on the west coast, then dialled the number.  The line was soon answered by a fairly young-sounding individual.  Arthur tamped down a growing sense of panic, and asked if he could speak to Karl Fleischer.

            “He might be napping,” the person on the other end of the line said.  “I’ll go check.”  After a few minutes, the speaker returned.  “Yeah, he’s sleeping right now.  Who is this?  What did you want to talk to him about?”

            Arthur quickly explained who he was, and why he wanted to speak to Mr. Fleischer.  “I won’t be in San Francisco until after my deadline, but if there was any chance he could meet me partway, perhaps in Phoenix or Albuquerque?”

            “Ooh, wow, would we get to see the show?”

            “Er, yes, I’m sure that can be arranged,” Arthur said, taken aback, as well as being slightly alarmed by the realisation that he not only had no idea to whom he was speaking, he didn’t even know if the person was a man or a woman.  “Ah, not to be rude, but who are you?”

            The person on the other end laughed.  “Sam Fleischer.  Karl’s sort of my grandpa.  Sort of.  He and Joe adopted my dad, you know?”  Another nervous laugh.  “I’m half live-in grandkid, half nurse.”

            “I see.”  That explained almost everything.  Arthur still wasn’t sure if the person was a man or a woman:  was he Samuel or was she Samantha?  “Well, if you can convince your grandfather to give me an interview, I’ll be glad to arrange for you to have the best seats in the house for Curt’s show in whichever town works for you.  And again in San Francisco, if you want.”

            “That would be _awesome_.  I’ll talk him into it.  Shouldn’t be difficult.  He reads your magazine all the time.”

            Arthur let out a brief laugh of relief.  “I’m glad to hear it.  When would be a good time to check back in with you?”

            “Grandpa takes a lot of unpredictable naps, saying he needs his beauty sleep, so mealtime’s usually the best time to make sure you’re not going to wake him.”

            With that out of the way, Arthur left the bedroom again, and told Mick to get ready to go out.  They had a lot of last minute supplies to buy before they’d be ready to board the plane in the morning…


	33. Chapter 33

            Considering that Mick had never even set foot in an airport before, he was behaving himself remarkably well.  He was staying by Arthur’s side and holding his hand, just as he’d been told to do.  Though the boy _said_ he wouldn’t forget that he was pretending to be Arthur’s son so that no one would give them a hard time about travelling together, Arthur didn’t completely trust the child to remember the lie, and had therefore purchased him a Walkman to keep him out of most conversations.

            For the most part, it wasn’t an issue until they were actually on board the plane.  Mick insisted on having the window seat so he could see everything they were flying over—and even before they took off, he seemed fascinated by watching the preparations and all the vehicles moving about, bringing fuel and luggage to the airplanes—and of course Arthur was sitting beside him.  But on Arthur’s other side was the thing he dreaded most of all:  the chatty female traveller, anxious to talk to _anyone_ about _anything_.

            “Your son is very well behaved,” she commented, even before the plane took off.

            “It’s his first time travellin’ by air,” Arthur replied, not sure what else to say.

            “My, that’s a funny accent you’ve got there!  Where you from, honey?”

            “Manchester.”

            The woman started laughing.

            “Is there a reason that’s funny?”

            “There’s a Manchester where I come from,” she told him, “though it’s mostly just a street.”

            “Er…”  What was he supposed to say to that?

            “Are you flying on to California?”

            “No, we’re gettin’ off in St. Louis.”

            “Me, too!  My home town, you know.”

            “Is that so?”  He couldn’t force himself to claim he found the fact interesting.  He just wanted the woman to shut up.

            “You travelling as a tourist, or are you thinking of moving?  It’s so much nicer than New York.”

            Arthur doubted that very highly.  “We’re meetin’ up with my better half,” he answered.  He felt that was a smooth way to imply ‘wife’ without actually lying.  He’d have to remember it for the future, in fact.

            “Aw, how sweet!  But what’s your little wife doing travelling without her handsome hubby?”

            “Business.”

            “Will you be staying long?”

            “Just a few days.”

            The woman patted his hand in an all too familiar manner.  “Well, my dear, let me share a few secrets with you!  I’ll make sure you can really make the most of those few days!”

            She yammered at him for most of the plane ride.  Arthur might have dozed off once or twice, but not long enough to get any peace.  Still, some of her suggestions actually did sound useful.  He’d have to mention them to Curt.

            Ah, Curt!  They’d finally be together again, in just a short while!  It was hard to keep calm, thinking of that.  He’d have to work hard to control himself on their reunion; it wouldn’t do to start kissing in the middle of a crowded airport, particularly in the American Midwest.  Regardless of that requirement for restraint, happy thoughts of the upcoming reunion soon filled Arthur’s mind, driving out all else.

            As soon as the plane came to a landing, Mick leapt to his feet and tried to disembark long before the captain turned off the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign.  Arthur had to hold him back to keep him in his seat.  The instant he let go, as the other passengers were fetching down their luggage from the overhead bins, Mick jumped out of his seat and scampered away up the aisle.  No amount of calling after him brought the boy back.  If Curt _wasn’t_ waiting out on the tarmac…

            “Energetic little thing, isn’t he?” the woman sitting next to Arthur remarked, apparently not the least bit annoyed that Mick had crawled over her to get away.  “Suppose he’s excited to see his mommy again.”

            “Er…well…yes…”  Mick certainly had been missing his mother as well as his father…

            Arthur managed to squeeze out past a few slower passengers, and hurried out through the tunnel into the airport itself, carrying both his own suitcase and Mick’s.   Not far into the passenger boarding area, Curt was crouching down, giving Mick a huge hug.

            Unable to contain his delight, Arthur ran over to them.  As soon as he got there, Curt let go of Mick, a huge grin covering his face.  “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you so much!” Curt exclaimed, pulling Arthur to his lips.  Heedless of everything and everyone else, Arthur wrapped his arms around his lover, kissing him passionately, all his earlier plans for self-control completely wiped from his mind.

            “Daddy!  Daddy, everybody’s staring!”  Mick’s voice eventually broke them out of their delight, and out of their kiss.

            “Sorry, Mick,” Curt said, tousling his hair.  “I was just so happy I couldn’t control myself.”

            “You shouldn’t be happier to see Arthur than to see me,” Mick said, his lower lip jutting out ridiculously.

            “It’s a different kind of happy,” Curt insisted.

            “Is there a cab waitin’ for us?” Arthur asked.

            “Nah, I rented a car.  C’mon, let’s get your stuff to the hotel.”  Curt took one of the suitcases from Arthur, and the three of them headed out of the airport together.

            The instant they stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the terminal building, Arthur’s forward progress was impeded by the very air outside.  “Bloody hell…people _live_ here?”

            Curt laughed.  “Like being hit in the face with an angry sauna, isn’t it?”

            “It’s really hot, Dad,” Mick whined.

            “Humid more than hot,” Curt told him.  “But if you think this is bad, you oughta feel what it’s like in the South.”

            Arthur shuddered.  “No, no, never again!”  That had been the worst part of the previous tour of Curt’s that Arthur had gone along on.  The heat and humidity in the South—on top of racism and homophobia—had been entirely unacceptable.

            “Well, the car’s got AC, and the hotel, too.  Don’t worry.”

            “Every time you tell me not to worry, I can’t help worryin’ more,” Arthur sighed, as he followed Curt towards the car park.

            “You sound like someone’s wife,” Curt laughed.

            Arthur chuckled.  “I just had to pretend that _you_ were _my_ wife,” he said.  “The woman sittin’ next to me on the plane wouldn’t shut up.”

            “I was a good boy and told everyone Arthur was my dad!” Mick chimed in.  “I didn’t tell anyone that he was really just your boyfriend!  Didn’t I do good, Dad?”

            “You sure did!” Curt assured him.  “How was your very first trip on a plane?”

            As Mick excitedly began recounting the whole trip in ridiculous detail, Arthur couldn’t help fondly watching the expression on Curt’s face.  He really looked overjoyed.

            The more Arthur thought back on the last six months, the more he realised that Curt was embracing the entire ‘fatherhood’ concept far more than Arthur would ever have expected.  Certainly much more than Arthur was.  Then again, it wasn’t fatherhood for Arthur:  it was barely even step-fatherhood.  He got on well with the boy, but didn’t feel any particularly strong bond with the child.  Though perhaps that had changed somewhat in the last two weeks, when he had been the only one looking after Mick’s well-being.

            The rental car was a perfectly ordinary sedan, though a bit dinged up; a perfect example of the kind of low-key vehicle that Arthur had never expected to see Curt driving.  But perhaps the rental place hadn’t trusted a rock star with a history of drug abuse with anything flashier.  The bags were deposited in one side of the back seat, and Mick sat on the other, though Curt wouldn’t start the car until Mick had fastened his safety belt.

            Traffic about the airport was moderately heavy—and the roads Curt was navigating seemed unnecessarily complex—but as soon as they were away from the airport, the traffic dropped off to almost nothing.  “That’s the good thing about the Midwest,” Curt commented, as he crossed three lanes at once.  “No one’s out on a Sunday morning.  If it wasn’t so fucking hot, I’d say it felt like home.”

            “How far is it to the hotel?” Arthur asked.

            “As the crow flies?  Beats the hell outta me,” Curt laughed.  “Takes a while to get there by the route I was given.  And I don’t want to try figuring out a new one, y’know?”

            “Yeah, getting lost in this heat would be miserable,” Arthur sighed.

            “What’re we gonna do after we get to the hotel?” Mick asked.

            “Well, that depends,” Curt told him.  “I was looking at the guide book to see what’s interesting around here.  What are you in the mood for?”

            “Getting out of this heat,” Mick moaned.

            Curt sighed and turned up the air-conditioning in the car, rather than replying.  They didn’t talk again until they got to the hotel, apart from Curt occasionally cursing at another driver.  By this point, Arthur knew better than to reproach him for swearing in front of Mick while he was driving.  Good way to cause an accident.

            The hotel was a very nice one, and Curt had gotten a suite with two bedrooms on either side of a small living room area.  Seeing that made Arthur smile:  no need to worry that Mick would accidentally see them making love this way.  Arthur’s bag was soon deposited in the same bedroom with Curt’s bags, and Mick’s was brought into the other bedroom.  To Arthur’s surprise, though, Curt insisted on opening Mick’s bag and having a look inside.

            “You didn’t bring that much to keep you occupied,” he commented, looking at the contents.  There were four or five books, but that was about it.

            “Arthur wouldn’t let me bring the Nintendo,” Mick whined.

            “What good would the Nintendo do you without a television?” Curt laughed.  “But you’re gonna need lots more to keep you occupied.”

            “Why?  Aren’t we going to be together?” Mick asked, sounding like he might cry.

            “Mick, we’ll be spending days just riding around on a bus,” Curt sighed. “And you aren’t gonna want to watch me practicing with the band, or—”

            “Yeah, I will!”

            “Maybe once or twice, but not over and over again.  Believe me, you’re gonna want something to keep you entertained.  You can ask the band if you don’t believe me.  Everyone’s always playing cards and stuff.”

            “You’re not gonna make me do my summer reading, are you?” Mick asked, his voice lumping up.

            “They assign you reading over the summer?”

            Mick nodded.

            “We’ll pick up your summer readin’ books as well as some _fun_ books to read,” Arthur said.  “Just in case you feel like gettin’ your homework out of the way.”

            Mick sighed, and glumly agreed.  Consequently, they were soon on their way back out to the rental car.  “Is that a new thing, giving reading over the summer break, or were my schools just shit?” Curt asked Arthur quietly.

            Arthur shrugged.  “American schools work very differently from ones in Britain,” he said.  “We usually had exams at the end of the summer holiday.”

            “Fuck.”  Curt shook his head.  “I’d never have put up with that.”

            “You wouldn’t ‘ave had a choice, love.”

            “Not going is a choice.”

            “Not really.”

            “Not going is _always_ a choice,” Curt insisted.  “Not a smart one, but it’s still a choice.”

            “It’s not that simple when—”

            “Are we _really_ gonna buy _books_?” Mick whined loudly, from beside the car.  “I wanna get games!”

            “Someone’s become quite entitled lately,” Arthur sighed.  Hard to believe he was the same child who had said he didn’t need Christmas presents in addition to having gotten a father.

            “We’ll get the books first, and then get you some games after lunch,” Curt said.  Mick accepted that with delight.

            They were _definitely_ spoiling the boy.  At the rate they were going, his mother wouldn’t have any hope of affording the cost of raising him when she got out of jail.


	34. Chapter 34

            The book store had taken a surprisingly long time.  In addition to the five books Mick’s school had assigned as summer homework, they picked him out a great many that would be pleasant reading material.  _The Hobbit_ , _The Never-Ending Story_ , the Prydain Chronicles, _Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH_ , and a few historical—or perhaps pseudo-historical—novels set in ancient Greece and aimed at a young audience.  The clerk at the book store had also recommended some Hardy Boys mysteries, but Curt had made such a face of disgust that the idea had quickly been dropped.

            On the way back to the hotel from the bookstore, Arthur spotted one of the restaurants that the woman on the airplane had recommended, so they stopped there for lunch.  Following their luncheon, they headed to a large toy store to buy Mick something less intellectual to keep him happily entertained.

            It turned out that there were handheld video games—each game coming built into its own hardware—and they bought him three of those:  _Super Mario Bros._ , _Climbers_ , and _Balloon Fight_.  On top of that, they bought him several magnetic board games designed to be played in the car, though those would require Mick to find a partner to play against, a dubious honour that Arthur feared would often fall on his shoulders.

            Finally finished with the ludicrous spending spree to keep one seven year old boy amused, Curt turned on the radio in the car on the way back to the hotel.  Arthur insisted on being the one to operate the dials, lest Curt get them in an accident by not paying attention to the road.  To his delight, he soon came across the sweet sound of Curt’s voice.  It was “Chicken Little” rather than “The Stars Are Falling,” but it was still an incredible thrill, and Arthur turned up the volume high enough that it was probably annoying people in the cars next to them.

            “You’re listening to KSHE 95, Real Rock Radio,” a man’s deep voice announced once the song was over.  “That was Curt Wild, with ‘Chicken Little,’ off the soundtrack to _He Done Her Wrong_.”

            “You know,” a woman’s voice added, “Curt Wild’s going to be performing in town on Tuesday night.”

            “I know!” the man replied.  “He’s already in town.”  Something about his certainty made Arthur’s gut start clenching up.

            “How do you know that?”

            “I just saw him at Imo’s Pizza not two hours ago!” the man laughed.  “Couldn’t believe my eyes.  Curt Wild and his boyfriend, just sitting there having lunch.”  Just in case, Arthur turned the volume down.  This might turn into something they wouldn’t want Mick hearing…

            “Did you get his autograph?” the woman asked.

            “I’d have felt awkward about it,” the man admitted.  “There was a kid with them.”

            “Shit,” Curt muttered.  “This is bad.”

            “A kid?” the woman repeated.  “Like a teenage fan?”

            “No, like a grade school kid.  He looked a bit like Curt, actually.  I thought maybe he’s a nephew or something.”

            “Weird,” the woman commented.  “I wonder what the story is there?”

            “Who knows?” the male DJ laughed.  “Maybe we’ll find out at the concert on Tuesday night!”

            The female DJ launched into a brief advert for the concert venue, then the station switched over to pre-recorded commercials, and Arthur turned it off.  “Curt…”

            “Yeah, I’ll call them when we get back to the hotel,” Curt sighed.

            “What’s wrong, Dad?” Mick asked from the back seat.  “Are you ashamed of me?”

            “That’s not it,” Curt assured him.  “It’s just that people might think the wrong thing.”

            “Is that why Arthur had to lie and say he was my dad in the airplane?”

            “That’s exactly why,” Arthur said.  “A lot of people don’t trust men like us.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because they’re stupid,” Curt grumbled.

            Arthur chuckled despite himself.  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

            “You want to try to explain it to him?” Curt countered.

            “Ah, not really.”

            “Then let’s just leave it at ‘they’re stupid’.”

            As much as he wanted to argue, Arthur couldn’t quite find the right way to do so, and they rode the rest of the way back to the hotel in silence.  Once they were back in their suite, they set Mick to playing with his new games in the main room, then retreated into the bedroom to call the radio station.  Curt was able to look up their phone number in the telephone directory, but it took him several minutes of arguing with the people on the other end before he got transferred to someone in charge of programming.  And then he immediately complained about being put on hold.

            After sitting slumped on the side of the bed with a scowl on his face for about five minutes, Curt’s posture suddenly corrected itself.  “Yeah, this is Curt Wild,” he said into the phone.  “Yes, it’s _really_ me, fuckwit!  How many times do I gotta prove it?!”  Curt frowned as he listened to the person on the other end, then shook his head.  “I want to clear something up.  On air.”  Another pause.  “Because your fucking DJ just told the whole goddamn city he’d seen me with a kid, and I don’t want any dumbasses thinking I kidnapped him or something!”  An even longer pause.  “Yeah, I guess you’d call it an interview…Tomorrow?  Well, I suppose that’s okay.  But start plugging it _now_.  I don’t want anyone who heard that thing a few minutes ago to miss it.”

            Curt slammed the receiver down on the base so hard that Arthur half expected the plastic to crack.  Getting up out of the chair he’d been sitting in, Arthur moved over to lean down and give Curt a deep kiss.  “I think you need some relaxation,” he suggested quietly.

            “Yeah, but Mick might hear us…”

            “Go in and turn the shower on.”

            Curt lifted an eyebrow curiously, but didn’t say anything.  Instead, he just gave Arthur a lusty kiss, then headed into the bathroom.

            Arthur went out into the main room, where Mick was sitting on the floor, trying to get the batteries into one of his hand-held games.  After helping him with the batteries, Arthur suggested that he should go into his own room of the suite to play with it.  “Why?” Mick asked.

            “Because your father and I are going to take a quick shower.  You don’t want any extra humidity to get into the air and make you even hotter, do you?”

            Mick shook his head feverishly, then picked up his games and hurried into his room, shutting the door behind him.

            By the time Arthur joined him, Curt was already in the shower, and so thoroughly aroused that it looked a bit painful.  Not that it took very long for Arthur to become equally aroused.

            They didn’t spend nearly as long on kissing and other foreplay as they normally did.  But after more than two weeks apart, surely that was only natural.  Quite soon, Arthur found himself being turned about, and felt Curt’s finger slipping inside him, gently prodding and poking.

            It was the least proper preparation for sex since their first time back on that London rooftop, but it felt so magnificent that Arthur was amazed he didn’t climax at the first feeling of Curt entering his body.  In many ways, the experience itself was far too brief, and yet he had needed that sexual release so desperately that it was also far too long.

            Once they were done making love, they spent a while longer in the shower, kissing and gently murmuring of their love for each other.  Perhaps carrying things a bit further than was natural to either of them, in fact, but under the circumstances it _felt_ natural.  And while Arthur thought the oath that they’d never be parted for more than a few hours ever again was carrying things impossibly far, he certainly intended to do everything in his power to prevent them being separated for quite so long ever again.

            When they were finished in the shower and dressed again, they headed out into the main room of the suite.  It was by this point about four in the afternoon, and Arthur thought it would be quite acceptable for them to just sit back and relax for what little remained of the day.  Curt had other plans, however, and called Mick out to join them, telling him to get his shoes on so they could go out again.

            “Where are we going, Daddy?” Mick asked, peering up at him with big, wide eyes.

            “Place I read about in the guide book,” Curt told him.  “There’s all these little shops and stuff, and a restaurant I want to eat dinner at.”

            “Why?” Arthur asked.  “Is it supposed to be the best in the city or something?”

            Curt shrugged. “I forgot to read that part.  But it’s owned by _Chuck Berry_!  How could we not eat there at least once?”

            Arthur laughed.  “All right, then.”


	35. Chapter 35

            First thing Monday morning, the road manager demanded that they supervise the set-up for the concert Tuesday night, and have a rehearsal, because he claimed that Curt had been ‘off’ for the last few performances.  He didn’t see any point in dignifying that with a proper response, and just told the guy to fuck off.  There weren’t going to be a lot of chances to relax on this trip, and he didn’t want to miss one.

            But at least now Arthur was with him.  And they’d already had sex twice, so he was feeling a lot more fulfilled than he had for the last two weeks.  Though of course both times had had to be in the shower, because Mick had insisted on sleeping with them, so the bed was off limits.  Hopefully that would be a one-time thing.  Sex in the shower wasn’t always convenient or comfortable.

            According to the guide book, the local zoo was pretty nice, so Curt and Arthur both agreed that it’d be something good to keep Mick entertained for the day.  They’d taken him to the Brooklyn Zoo a couple of times, of course, but they probably had different animals in this one.

            By the end of the day, they were all dripping with sweat from the humidity, and Curt felt like he was going to be hearing the call of the red-winged blackbird for the rest of his natural life.  But Mick had enjoyed riding the little train around between the parts of the zoo, and seeing all the different animals.  His favorite part had probably been the giraffes, because he’d been able to feed one a few leaves off the ground, and its big blue-purple tongue had—according to Mick—been very soft.  Being drooled on by a fifteen foot tall animal didn’t seem like it would be fun to Curt, but if it made the kid happy, what was the harm?

            After a shower and a nice dinner at a nearby restaurant, Curt left Mick in Arthur’s care, and headed for the radio station.  Just in case, he told Arthur not to let Mick listen.  He might end up saying things the boy shouldn’t hear.

            The interview was scheduled for a bit after eight, and Curt arrived at the suggested time, shortly before eight.  The intervening time was spent on the usual bullshit:  introductions, reminders of the words he shouldn’t say on-air, all that stuff he heard every single time.  As a lead-in to the interview, the DJ played one of the songs off Curt’s new album before addressing the microphone, telling his listeners that Curt was there in the studio with him.

            “Thanks for taking the time to talk to us,” he added, looking at Curt.

            “Didn’t give me much choice, did you?” Curt snapped back.  “I know what people think of men like me.”

            The DJ made an uncomfortable face.  “I wasn’t trying to—”

            “It doesn’t matter what you were trying to do.  We’ve been facing enough crap back in New York, and don’t think for a minute that I’m fool enough to think it wouldn’t be worse here.”

            The DJ nodded.  “So, the boy with you is…uh…”

            “Yeah, he’s my son.”

            “Adopted, or…?”

            “No, he’s _really_ my son,” Curt said, feeling annoyed.  The motherfucker had specifically said how much he thought Mick looked like Curt, so why was he so surprised to learn they were related?  “I’m bisexual, remember?  So one of my ex-girlfriends got pregnant, and never told me about it.”

            “She must have told you eventually…”

            “No, her landlord did, after she got arrested.”  Curt shook his head.  “I was seeing her while I was at my worst with heroin.  I cleaned up my act after I went to jail, but we were already broken up by that point, so there was no one to clean up _her_ act.  Now she’s in jail, and she didn’t have any family or anything, but her landlord knew I was the father, so he got in touch with me, and now Arthur and I are raising the kid.”

            “It must be difficult on the boy.”

            Curt shrugged.  “He’s been handling it pretty well.  He’s a survivor, like me.  Besides, we’ve pretty much been spoiling him.  Had to buy him all kinds of shit when he first came to us, ‘cause he didn’t have anything, and then…well, I never really had anything much as a kid, so it’s been a bit like living out the fantasy of what I’d have liked my own childhood to be.”

            “How did your boyfriend take to the news that you had a son?”

            “At first, we were both in shock.  It happened pretty damned suddenly.  Not like how it usually is, when you’ve got months of warning before the kid’s even born.  Instead, one minute no kids, and the next minute, a seven year old son.  But it’s not like Arthur thought I had never had any girlfriends, so he hasn’t had any problem with it.  And he and Mick get along pretty well.”

            “Mick?  That’s the boy’s name?”

            “Yeah, his mom’s a Stones fan.”

            The DJ laughed.  “How long have you been looking after him?”

            “Since early December.  It’s just lucky we had a spare bedroom, or we’d have had to get a new apartment.”

            “Why haven’t you told the media about him before now?”

            “Every time someone sees us with him on the subway, they look at us cross-eyed, wondering if we’re kidnappers or pedophiles.  You think I wanted to be the target of a whole country thinking that?”

            “But if he’s your son, they won’t think that,” the DJ insisted.

            “I wish I could believe that.  But I’m not that naïve.  This is still Reynolds’ America.  People like us aren’t welcome.”

            “Just one more year,” the DJ said with an encouraging smile.  “Then we’ll have a new President.”

            “Yeah.”  But if that new President was Blaine, it wouldn’t be much different from another four years of Reynolds.  “But we probably shouldn’t be discussing politics.”  Arthur would kill him.

            The DJ chuckled.  “So let’s talk music!  I caught your New Year’s Eve concert on television.  That was quite the exciting show.”

            “Thanks.  It was a fun show to do.”

            “What was it like, working with Brian Slade again after all these years?”

            Curt bit his lip a moment.  “That’s…”  He sighed.  “In the moment, it was almost like old times.  Except when I looked over at that face.  That broke the spell damn fast.”  He shook his head.  “Leading up to it was surreal.  In some ways, he hasn’t changed, and probably never will.  Still a perfectionist, as far as his vision of his music goes.  What that vision is, though, that couldn’t be more different.”

            “The music itself couldn’t be more different,” the DJ agreed, “but what do you mean by the ‘vision’ of the music?”

            “Back in the ‘70s, the music meant something.  It was a personal statement, his— _our_ —call to a very different revolution than the one the ‘60s saw.  Brian’s music didn’t just _have_ a point—it _was_ the point.”  Curt sighed deeply.  “For me, my music, that’s never really changed.  Maybe my message has changed a bit, a little more cynical, a little more personal, but my attitude towards my music hasn’t changed any.  But at some point Brian decided that what really mattered to him wasn’t any message or hope of change, but celebrity and the worship of the fans.  So when he became Tommy Stone, he reinvented his music to fit the new era.  I…even now, it’s hard not to take that as a personal attack, like he’s saying there’s something wrong with the way I treat my music and my career.  I know that’s not the point—it never had anything to do with me—but our visions used to mesh so perfectly, and now they couldn’t be more different.”

            “What about on a more personal level?” the DJ asked.

            “You mean what was it like working with my ex?”

            The DJ coughed in an embarrassed way, even as he nodded slightly.

            “It’s awkward.  It’s always awkward, but…since we started getting on as friends, I’ve started thinking of Tommy and Brian as separate people.  I know they’re not, but it’s easier to deal with that way.”  Curt shrugged with a little laugh.  “The one who was really uncomfortable about us working together again was Shannon.”

            “Tommy’s wife?”

            “Yeah.  Wife and manager.  She used to be part of his entourage, back in the ‘70s, and she _always_ hated me.”  Curt laughed.  “You oughta hear some of Mandy’s stories about her.  It really ate her up seeing me and Brian together, and now that she’s got him for herself, she’s terrified at the idea of letting me anywhere near him.  Even though I’m in a steady relationship that’s lasted a lot longer than mine with Brian did.  Not that _that_ relationship was what you could call stable.”

            “At the time, everyone was touting your relationship with Brian Slade as being true love,” the DJ commented.  “What’s your view on it now, more than ten years later?”

            “That’s…I don’t know.  We were almost never sober.  Me, especially.  It was exciting and fun, and I enjoyed every minute, except when we were fighting.  But looking at it now, I feel like we were really just kids who didn’t know what we were doing, and it was doomed to failure.  There isn’t much of it I’d want to do differently if I had the chance, but I can’t see it as this big, deep romance.  Not like I used to.”

            “Where do you suppose you’ll be as many years from now?” the DJ asked.  “How do you think you’ll be looking back on yourself now?”

            Curt raised an eyebrow, fighting a laugh.  “Shit, fourteen years from now?  I’ll be pretty old by then.  Doubt I’d still be performing by that point.”  He shook his head.  “I’d like to think I’ll be sitting on a sofa somewhere, with Arthur beside me.  And probably be complaining that Mick’s off running around instead of being sensible and responsible.  Or maybe I’ll be complaining that he _is_ being sensible, instead of being off running around and having fun.”  Curt let out a sad little laugh.  “For the first time in my life, I’m in a position where I feel like I’ll actually live to retirement age.  I’m not on drugs anymore—I don’t even smoke anymore—and despite my hedonistic years, I don’t have AIDS.  So suddenly I’m in a position where I only have the same threats hanging over my head as hang over everyone’s heads.  I actually _could_ live to old age.  When I left home, I don’t know if I even thought I’d reach _twenty_ , let alone forty.  Sixty-five would have seemed like a crazy dream.  One I probably wouldn’t have even wanted to have come true.”

            “Left home?” the DJ repeated.  “So you weren’t really raised by wolves?”

            Curt laughed.  “C’mon, who the hell’s ever really been raised by wolves?  One of the Rats came up with that story when I wouldn’t talk about my family, and I went along with it ‘cause wolves would have been nicer.  And a lot of people thought it was romantic.  Helped me get laid plenty of times.”

            The DJ chuckled.  “Would you care to share your real origins with us?”

            “No.”  After a moment’s pause, Curt felt just a tiny bit bad about that as an answer.  “There _are_ actually some people who know, and that’s already too many.  I didn’t have a happy childhood, and I took off as soon as I was able.  Ended up on the outskirts of Detroit, with a commune full of…well, it was too early for hippies, so I guess you’d call them proto-hippies.”  Curt shrugged.  “They held everything in common, including each other.  I learned a lot from them, sexually.  And in just about every other way.  They had two gardens in their commune:  a vegetable garden outside for growing food, and a marijuana garden inside.”

            The DJ laughed.  “Seriously, you ended up at a pot-farming commune?”

            “Yeah.  They knew I was a runaway, and they wanted to protect me from getting caught and sent back to my folks, so they had me inside working the pot farm,” Curt laughed.  “Those were a weird couple of years.  It was through them that I learned to play the guitar, and started forming the Rats.  But it was also through them that I first started taking drugs.”

            “So it had its pluses and minuses.”

            “In the long run, the pluses were greater.”  Despite that every single person in that commune had been more fond of having sex with him than with anyone else in the commune, it was never forced, and never unpleasant; it was never the way it had been with his brother.  “I’ve occasionally tried to get in touch with them to see if they’re still all right, but I’ve never managed to reach any of them.”

            There was a pause for a moment, then the DJ smiled weakly.  “Sorry if this seems intrusive, but…the people in that commune, were they men or women?”

            “Both.  All bisexual.  Though they never called it that.  They just said that in their house, it was rude to refuse a request for sex.  Unless you had, you know, medical reasons.  None of the chicks ever put out during their period or shit like that.”

            “How old were they?”

            “I never asked.  I didn’t even care at the time.  I’d say, looking back, that they were probably in their twenties.  Old enough to know better than to screw a teenage boy, but young enough that I sure as hell didn’t mind when they did.”  Because they were all at least moderately attractive, and none of them were related to him.

            The DJ coughed.  “This is probably going places it shouldn’t…”

            “You’re the one who asked,” Curt pointed out.

            The DJ nodded, and picked up a sheet of notes, looking through them.  “Oh, yes, I forgot to ask!  What did you think of your lunch yesterday?  St. Louis-style pizza and toasted ravioli.  Did you enjoy them?”

            Curt was momentarily floored by the disjointed nature of the question.  Then he laughed, shaking his head.  “The toasted ravioli was good; everyone liked that.  I’m not sure what I thought of the pizza.  I’ve gotten used to New York-style pizza, with a soft crust, you know?  So that crisp crust is an adjustment.  And the cheese was…sort of…tangy…”

            “The cheese is the part that really distinguishes it from every other thin-crust pizza,” the DJ insisted.  “So you didn’t like it?”

            “No, it was okay.  I thought it was okay, anyway.  Mick hated it, and Arthur thought it was great.”  Curt shrugged.  “Honestly, I don’t usually end up trying the local dishes during a tour, so it was a nice change of pace.”

            “What made you try ours when you hadn’t been so far?”

            “Arthur and Mick only just joined me yesterday morning.  They had to stay in New York until Mick’s school let out.”  No way was he going to admit that the plan had been for them to stay the whole time.  That’d make him sound like a terrible father _and_ a lousy lover.  “It’s Mick’s first time out of the City, so we have to try and give him a chance to really see the country.  I don’t know if I’ll ever go on another tour, after all.”


	36. Chapter 36

            Arthur woke up to the wonderfully pleasant sensation of Curt’s naked body pressed up against his own, one arm wrapped around his waist.  The over-starched hotel sheets and the loud groan of the air-conditioning unit were less pleasant, however.

            “Good morning, baby,” Curt soon whispered in his ear, sliding his hand down Arthur’s side to his hip and beyond.

            “Morning,” Arthur agreed, rolling over onto his back to look at his lover.

            “Sleep well?”

            “I enjoyed the part _before_ sleepin’ more,” Arthur replied, with a smile.

            Curt grinned back at him, and leaned in for a deep kiss, which was soon rudely interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on the door to the suite.  “Now what?” Curt growled, looking in the direction of the door.  “We put up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, didn’t we?”

            “I certainly thought so,” Arthur agreed.

            Grumbling foul oaths under his breath, Curt got out of bed and began stalking towards the door out of the bedroom.  His actions didn’t alarm Arthur until he opened the door and went out into the main room of the suite, still naked.

            “Curt, your trousers!” Arthur hissed.  Curt didn’t come back in, so Arthur grabbed the nearest garment—a hotel-provided bathrobe—and slung it on as quickly as he could before following his lover.

            “Gross, Dad, put some clothes on!” Mick’s voice soon shrieked.  So much for any claim on Curt’s part to be worried about what people would think!

            By the time Arthur was in the main room, Curt had reached the door to the hall and was opening it, heedless of Arthur’s cries to wait.  “What the _fuck_ do you want?!” Curt demanded.

            “Ugh.  Would it kill you to put on some boxers before you answer the door?” an unfamiliar man’s voice asked.

            “Unless you wanna lose your job…” Curt threatened.

            The man on the other side of the door sighed heavily.  “Just reminding you that you do have _work_ to do.  And we need to check out of the hotel in the next hour.  You’ve been wasting the last two days, so there’s still a lot of work to be done before the performance tonight.”

            Curt sighed heavily.  “Yeah, all right.  We’ll be downstairs in half an hour.”

            “Don’t forget you have to return that fucking rental car.”

            “I haven’t forgotten!” Curt shouted, then slammed the door in the other man’s face.

            “Who…?”

            “Road manager,” Curt grumbled.  “Makes Alicia look like a fucking sweetheart.”

            Arthur shook his head.  “Sorry he’s been making things difficult for you, but antagonisin’ him will only make it worse.  And put your trousers on, please.”

            Curt flipped him off before heading into the bedroom to get dressed.

            “We’re leaving?” Mick asked.  “Where are we going?”

            “Your father’s got a performance tonight, and then we’ll be gettin’ on the tour bus to go to the city for the next concert,” Arthur explained.

            “What city?”

            “Er…I’m not sure,” he admitted.  “I’ve already forgotten what was on the list next.”  No matter what city it was, Arthur could only hope that the heat would be drier than it was here.

            Mick nodded.  “Do I get to watch the concert this time?”

            “I can’t see why not,” Arthur assured him, patting the boy on the head.  “Now go and put some of your things together while your father and I get dressed.”

            “Okay.”

            Arthur watched to make sure that Mick really was picking up the games and clothes he had scattered all over the suite, then headed back into the bedroom he and Curt were sharing.  Curt was already mostly dressed by the time Arthur shut the door behind him.  “You all right, love?” Arthur asked.

            “Yeah.”  Curt sighed, shaking his head.  “I think I’m getting too old to be out touring,” he grumbled, sitting down on the bed.  “I’d rather take my time, and not ride buses all fucking night.”

            Arthur sat down beside him, giving him a light kiss.  “There’s nothing wrong with that.  If your next album sells well enough that they want to have a tour, you’ll just have to demand that it be long enough not to drive us all insane.”

            “The days when I had the power to make demands are long gone.”

            “I think you’d be surprised,” Arthur assured him, sliding his arm around Curt’s frame.  “Remember, everyone’s in this just for you.”

            Curt laughed bitterly.  “The fans, yeah.  But the staff?  They’re just in it for the money.  Don’t give a fuck about me.”

            “Really, what are you bein’ so grumpy for?” Arthur laughed, giving him a kiss.  “Do we need to ‘ave even more sex?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Curt chuckled.  “Get dressed, though.  I’m getting hungry.”

            Arthur nodded, and hurried into his clothes.  While he was getting dressed, Curt was shoving their clothes haphazardly into their suitcases, so they were all packed up by the time Arthur was ready to leave the room.  Mick’s things were hastily packed up, too—though many of them could only be packed back into the shopping bags they’d entered the suite in—so as they left for breakfast, Curt handed the room keys over to his road manager, telling him to get all their things to the bus.

            They had to settle for a fast food breakfast, before meeting up with the tour bus, and trusting one of the staff to return the rental car.  As soon as they boarded the tour bus, an unfamiliar young woman—approximately in her mid-twenties—suddenly let out a squeal.

            “Ah, he’s just as cute as you said!” she exclaimed.  She ran over to them, giving Arthur more than a bit of a start, then crouched down in front of Mick, grabbing him in a hug that left the child squirming in fear and confusion.  “C’mere, cutie!  You know, your daddy’s really missed you!  He’s been talking about you all the time!”

            Mick stopped squirming, and looked up at Curt with a big grin on his face.  Curt’s face was rather red, and he refused to meet anyone’s eye.  Several of the men on the bus started laughing at him, causing Curt to curse them out.  Arthur was having to fight down a warm chuckle himself.

            The woman introduced herself as Allison, the girlfriend of one of the men in the back-up band, and as the bus headed to the concert grounds, she explained that her sister’s oldest was about Mick’s age, and she had a lot of experience babysitting.  Later, she confided quietly in Arthur that she’d be happy to help look after Mick for the rest of the trip.  While it was good to know there was someone on hand to help distract him whenever Curt and Arthur needed to sneak off for a bit of a shag, Arthur assured her that for the most part, they really didn’t need any help with the boy anymore.

            Most of Curt’s day was spent in frantic rehearsals, and repeated supervision of the site set-up.  Watching that process only held Mick’s attention for a brief while; after that, he turned his attention to his new games.  Arthur had to learn how to play a number of the magnetic travel games they’d bought for the boy.  Monotonous, but perhaps less so than watching the preparations for the concert.

            The concert itself was wonderful, of course, but the prospect of riding a bus all night to their next destination did not fill Arthur with any kind of delight…


	37. Chapter 37

            Long distance phone calls did not tend to be cheap, and were even more expensive from hotel rooms.  Curt insisted that it was all right, since the hotel rooms were being paid for by the record label or the management company or someone, but Arthur felt that actually made it worse.  Regardless, they were a necessity if he was going to complete his article in the proper fashion to keep his job, and a lot of them were needed before he successfully arranged to meet with Karl Fleischer.

            In order to have plenty of time for the interview, Arthur had arranged to meet Karl and his grandchild/nurse Sam at the Grand Canyon, so the interview could be held while Curt and Mick were sightseeing.  Arthur regretted missing the chance to see the canyon himself, but…he had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

            Fortunately, Karl arrived about fifteen minutes later than the arranged meeting time, so Arthur had a little while to take in the canyon’s magnificent vista.  Karl and Sam Fleischer arrived in a rusty rental car, driven by Sam, an androgynous youth with short hair, and such a plain T-shirt and jeans that Arthur still wasn’t entirely sure if Sam was male or female.

            Karl himself was in his seventies, and looked entirely unassuming.  He seemed very sprightly for a man his age, and had a twinkle in his eye as he approached.  If it weren’t for the numbers tattooed on his forearm, he would seem like an entirely ordinary old man.

            “I appreciate you comin’ so far to talk to me, Mr. Fleischer,” Arthur told him.  “If you’d like to talk in the bus, it’s still quite cool inside.”

            “Inside a real tour bus…” Sam murmured, looking at the gaudily painted bus with awe.  “Can I come, too?”

            Karl laughed at his grandchild’s enthusiasm, and said something in German, before looking at Arthur.  “Getting in out of the sun will be good for my skin.  Don’t need any more wrinkles than I’ve already got.”  His German accent was thicker than Friederich Liebermann’s, but also subtly different.

            Arthur nodded, and led them inside the bus.  Those members of the back-up band who hadn’t decided to accompany Curt and Mick down to the bottom of the canyon were milling about on the lower floor of the bus.  “Do you think you can handle the stairs, Mr. Fleischer?  I’m sure you’d rather have privacy…”

            “I’m not that old yet.  You just lead the way.”

            Arthur headed up the stairs to the second floor of the bus.  In contrast to the lower area, which had an empty area for last minute practice sessions—should they be needed—the upper deck of the bus was exclusively seating.  Naturally, the seats all reclined fully to allow the passengers a chance to sleep, making for far fewer seats than a commercial bus of the same size.  There were more than enough for everyone travelling on the bus, however.

            “We can sit anywhere you’d like,” Arthur told him.

            Karl sat down near the stairs, and flashed an almost coquettish smile at Arthur.  “You might not believe me,” he said, “but I was once quite the fine-looking young man.  Perhaps not as fine as _you_ , but…”

            “Grandpa, don’t flirt with him!” Sam whined.  “It’s disgusting.  Stick to guys born in the same century as you.”

            “I was born in this century!” Karl retorted.

            Arthur cleared his throat.  “Perhaps the interview would go better if we didn’t have an audience?” he suggested.

            “Yeah, Grandpa’s old war stories are boring anyway,” Sam said, heading for the stairs.  “I’m gonna see if any of the band is available.”

            “Use protection if you do anything!” Karl shouted after the youth.

            “Ah…Mr. Fleischer…”

            “Oh, sorry,” Karl said, with a light chuckle.  “My grandchild is quite the handful, eh?  Don’t know why my son insists on making me babysit all the time.”

            Arthur smiled uncomfortably.  If the old man’s mind was going, he wasn’t going to be a very good source…  “Do you mind if we start the interview?” he asked, setting his notepad prominently on his lap.

            Karl’s cheerful expression faded a bit.  “Suppose we must,” he sighed.  “I don’t like thinking about it.”

            “I understand that.”

            “What did you need to know?”

            Arthur cleared his throat.  “I’ve read all the basic information in the historical record, so…I suppose what I’m lookin’ for is the personal reaction—what it felt like bein’ caught in the middle of such terrible events.”

            Karl nodded sadly.  “The worst part was that in Berlin under the Weimar Republic, we felt like we didn’t need to hide anymore.  It wasn’t that everyone accepted us—far from it—but Berlin at that time was a wild and exciting place, where nothing was truly forbidden.  Like Paris at the turn of the century, ja?”

            “Was that part of what helped the Nazis come to power?”

            “I don’t think so.  That was…it was economics—the suffering all around us as the losers in a bitter war; a whole people forced to foot the bill for actions committed by their leaders.”  Karl shook his head.  “The Nazis provided scapegoats, and the people who were suffering the most were eager to accept those scapegoats, because it meant they didn’t have to acknowledge their own guilt, and they didn’t have to change themselves if they could punish someone else.  Everyone who didn’t fit in had to suffer, had to die.”  Karl sighed bitterly.  “If I had stayed in Bayern, perhaps I would not have been persecuted.  But I was lured by the lights of the notorious city, and the freedom to be myself.  At home in München, I had never admitted to anyone that I loved men.  If Berlin had not been as it was, I would have stayed—as you put it in English—in the closet, and I might have escaped safely.”

            Arthur nodded solemnly, trying not to think about what his life could so easily become if things took a turn for the worse in America, or in Britain.  It wasn’t hard to imagine that Reynolds would want to lock up everyone he perceived to fall under the dreaded ‘fag’ epithet.

 

***

 

            To Curt’s surprise, Arthur was still talking to the old German guy when everyone dragged themselves back onto the bus.  Despite much talk, they hadn’t actually gone down to the bottom of the canyon; they had just hiked around up and down the edge to see different views and find the best places to look straight down.  Still, it had been hot—a dry heat, but still way too fucking hot for his tastes—and everyone was sweaty and smelly.  The bus had a really pathetic shower on board, and everyone who had gone hiking around had to take a shower before they could leave for Phoenix, or the whole bus was gonna reek.  Even then, they had to tie up all their smelly clothes in plastic bags to get laundered in town or the bus would _still_ have started to stink.  Beyond the usual stink accumulated during this kind of trip.

            All in all, it had been a really bad idea.  They should’ve just taken photos from the rim and driven away, like everyone else.  But Mick had really wanted to go down, or at least to spend more time looking at it.  How could Curt have said no?

            Since Arthur’s interview looked like it needed hours more still, they just took off for Phoenix with the old man still on board the bus, with his grandson—granddaughter?—following in their junker.  Mick stayed down below with Allison, but Curt headed upstairs.  It wasn’t that he thought some old German fag was gonna turn Arthur’s head!  He was just curious what they could be talking about that would take so long to say.

            In light of the horrible tortures the old man was describing, Curt quickly decided he should have stayed down below with everyone else.  But once he was up there, it would have been humiliating to go back down again.  Like admitting that he couldn’t take it.  He was never going to admit something like that.  Besides, Arthur probably needed the emotional support of having him around.

            The interview was actually still going when they got to the hotel, so Curt had to take Mick and their bags up to the hotel room without Arthur.  But Arthur joined them after another half hour, so it wasn’t too bad.  Of course, after spending most of the day talking about conditions inside a concentration camp, Arthur needed something light and cheerful to take his mind off the unpleasantness of reality.  The best they could do was a nice dinner and a movie, but it was better than nothing.  And of course after Mick was safely in bed on the other side of their suite at the hotel, Curt made sure to give Arthur a much more intense, private happiness.

            They spent the next morning and half the afternoon looking around in Phoenix, but then Curt had to dive into the preparations for the concert that night.  As if there was going to be _anything_ different about it.  By this point in the tour, everything to do with the tour itself had become painfully repetitive.

            In the old days, Curt would have been high, drunk or both for most of the tour, and literally wouldn’t know where he was or what he was doing.  Between the hard work and the repetition, that was almost necessary to maintain his sanity.  But getting high wasn’t an option anymore, and he couldn’t get drunk with Mick there, so…touring was suddenly even more hellish than it had ever been before.  It didn’t help that he wasn’t getting to have as much sex as he wanted, either, again due to the boy’s presence.

            Next tour, no kids.  That was a definite.  Better not to have a tour than to have one weighed down by a kid.


	38. Chapter 38

            Trying to finish up his article after gaining so much information from Karl Fleischer had been one of the most difficult things Arthur had attempted in years.  In addition to being massively more information than he had room for—it needed a full book, in truth—he didn’t even have a computer, and was having to use an old typewriter.  Over the years, his reliance on computers and the ease of editing that they allowed had grown surprisingly strong.

            It was quite a near thing; he barely got the final draft faxed off to the _Freedoms_ office by his deadline.

            Once the article was safely turned in, Arthur was better able to enjoy the trip, insofar as it was possible to enjoy a trip like that one.  In fully half the cities they visited, there was no chance to see the sights, and every time they _did_ go sightseeing, the tour’s staff became more and more irritated by their doing so.  In fact, Arthur soon began to fear a mutiny.

            To make matters worse, the longer the trip wore on, the less Mick was enjoying it.  By his eighth birthday, Mick just wanted to go home.  With so little of the tour left, it didn’t seem particularly practical for the two of them to fly back to New York, however, so all they could do was to urge him to tough it out.

            Curt had the idea of letting Mick talk to his mother on the phone so he could at least have  _some_ contact with her on his birthday.  Somehow, he managed to talk the warden into bringing her into his office to accept the call.  It was a good thought, but it turned out to have been rather a poor idea in practice.  To Arthur’s mild distress, Mick repeatedly complained to his mother of how much more attention Curt paid to Arthur than to his own son.  The longer the boy was on the phone, the more upset he got, until he was finally crying too hard to talk.  A nice dinner with cake and ice cream helped cheer the child up a little, but he was still quite sad and sniffley by bedtime, and he _insisted_ on having Curt sleep in his room with him, leaving Arthur all alone in the other bedroom of the suite.  Curt didn’t want that any more than Arthur did, and repeatedly told Mick that it would be better to have all three of them together in the same bed, but Mick was having none of that, and insisted that it had to be the two of them alone, without Arthur.

            Of course, Curt had to accept.  How could he have refused?  It was the boy’s birthday, and he was half a continent away from his mum, and he had spent half the afternoon weeping most piteously.  Of course Curt did as he asked.  And Arthur wouldn’t have wanted him to refuse…but it was painfully lonely, sleeping alone when he knew Curt was only a single room away.

            Mick seemed more cheerful after that, though he kept insisting on sharing their room with them, to the point that they didn’t even bother getting a suite for the final week of the tour.  They just sent Mick to go spend some time with Allison when they wanted to have sex.  Not ideal, but it made the child a lot happier.

            Towards the end of the trip, Arthur finished reading the last book he had brought with him.  Considering he still had quite a few back at the flat that he hadn’t read yet, it seemed better not to buy any new ones, so he started searching through Curt’s and even Mick’s luggage to see if there was anything he wanted to read among their things.  One of the ones in Mick’s case was _Myths of the Norse Lands_ by Simone Dancer, one of the books Arthur had given the boy for Christmas.  It looked like it still hadn’t been read yet.  Arthur decided that _someone_ should read it, even if it wasn’t going to be the book’s recipient.

            As in her book on the Greek myths, it was illustrated in the style of that culture’s art, and it started with descriptions of the major gods of the culture’s pantheon before moving on to the myths themselves.  Arthur didn’t get very far before coming across a description that left him so astonished that Curt actually noticed his reaction from the other side of the bus, and came over, leaving Mick to his game.

            “What’s up?” he asked.

            “Look at this,” Arthur said, handing him the book.  “This passage here, about Loki.”

            “The trickster Loki was the god of mischief,” Curt read aloud, “who specialised in transformation, especially if it let him play tricks on the other gods.  He was also the god of _ergi_ , a word that refers to men performing unmanly acts, like wearing a dress, or being passive with other men.”  Curt let out a laugh.  “Shit, does that mean he was the god of getting fucked up the ass?”

            “Sounds like it,” Arthur agreed, laughing.

            “I never knew the Vikings were so cool.”

            “It’s certainly news to me, too,” Arthur agreed.

            “I think I’ve got a new favourite god.”

            Arthur laughed harder, sliding an arm around Curt’s shoulders.  “Do me a favour and don’t say that where anyone else can hear it, love.”

            “Please, they’d probably just be glad I don’t worship Satan.”

            “Yeah, probably.”

            “Where’d you get this book, anyway?” Curt asked, turning it to look at the cover.  “Wait, this is that one you gave to Mick for Christmas, isn’t it?  Something like that’s in a _kid’s_ book?”

            “Well, if you don’t know about sex, it wouldn’t mean anything to you,” Arthur said.  “Probably.”  He shrugged.  “Maybe the author’s a bit more open than most.”

            Curt nodded, and looked at the back cover.  “Says she’s a school teacher in London.  Shit, why didn’t I ever get a cool teacher like that?  There’s a picture of her, too.  Not bad.”

            Arthur glanced over at the cover.  The author was, indeed, fairly attractive, with a winning smile.  “It says she teaches university,” he pointed out.  “You never attended university.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “I’m sure even in America, the professors at universities are more ‘cool’ than the ones you and I got stuck with.”

            “You’re not going on another ‘why didn’t I finish school’ kick, are you?” Curt asked, looking at him suspiciously.

            Arthur laughed sadly.  “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

            “Good.  Because you’re perfect as you are.  No reason to regret anything,” Curt told him, with a light kiss.

            “No one’s perfect.  Not even you.”

            “Hey, is that the way you react to a compliment?”

            “You’re as close to perfect as a person can get,” Arthur assured him, smiling softly.

            Curt smiled back at him for a minute or two, then started kissing him.  It was quite lovely, until Arthur felt small hands trying to pry his arms off Curt’s.

            “Daddy!  It’s _your turn_!” Mick was whining.  “It’s been your turn for _ages_!”

            Curt sighed as he turned to look at his son.  “When we get home, we’ve got to get you some friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw that "ergi" thing in the notes on a Humon Comic (http://humoncomics.com/naughty-nordic-gods) and knew I had to someday find a way to use it. :D This happened to be the first opportunity that came up. (Though I admit it may have been a little forced...)


	39. Chapter 39

            When they finally got home from the tour, Arthur felt as though they’d been gone for years.  Everything ached from all that time spent cramped up riding on the bus—not to mention trying to have three people sleep in a bed built for two—and there were piles and piles of laundry to be done.  Curt swore he’d do the laundry, since it had been _his_ tour, but Arthur wasn’t entirely sure that was going to happen:  Curt was, after all, a bit unreliable when it came to domestic drudgery.

            In the mean time, Arthur had to get to work on his next story for _Freedoms_.  Alicia had left him a list with the contact information for all the same-sex couples she knew of who had a child at Mick’s school, and he had to contact all of them, in the hopes of getting interviews.  And, of course, hoping that they would know additional couples he could talk to, to get a wider perspective.  As he interviewed the couples—most of whom were two women, rather than two men—Arthur hoped their children might be about Mick’s age, to help him gain more friends than just Alicia’s son, but not one was in his grade.

            The article took up so much of his time that Arthur had very little for anything else; he rarely saw Curt outside of mealtimes and bed.  It was becoming intolerably stressful, but he was sustained by the hope that his next article would be easier, and allow him more time with the man he loved.

            Naturally, that did not end up being the case.

            Since he had quickly developed into the magazine’s political expert, Arthur was expected to write up several articles on the election for September’s and October’s issues, not only comparing the candidates from the two major parties, but also having a look at the third party candidates and analysing whether any of them stood a chance—of course they didn’t, but it was hard to find a way of proving that beyond just a reliance on polls that often didn’t even mention them—and if any of them would actually be an improvement over Martin Reynolds.  Unfortunately, not one candidate had ever come forward to attest any support or even sympathy for the homosexual community, so technically by _Freedoms_ ’ standards, they were all equally unappealing.  But Blaine had stood by and supported Reynolds in all his homophobic policies, so it seemed realistic to assume that he was the worst choice for their common interests.

            Given the rise in violent crime—particularly shootings—and the Committee for Cultural Renewal attempting to wipe out all free thought, not to mention the rapidly deteriorating relations with the USSR and Communist Bloc countries, Arthur thought that surely the American people would realise just how much damage Reynolds had done in his eight years in the Oval Office, and would vote resoundingly against Blaine, who didn’t have Reynolds’ charisma to carry him past his myriad political failings.

            8 November showed him how much he still didn’t understand the average American’s political leanings.

            In his victory speech, Blaine—with Reynolds standing proudly behind him, like a diabolical puppet master—promised the country that while he would continue to “fight the good fight against tyranny, Communism and all that is un-American,” his number one priority would be to re-introduce and get passed the 27th Amendment, so that Reynolds could return to the White House, “because there’s still so much wrong with this great country of ours, and only Martin Reynolds can save it!”

            Disgustingly, the crowd erupted into applause so loud that it nearly damaged the sound equipment that was being used to record the speech.

            “I think I’m gonna get a special bumper sticker made for my car,” Curt commented.

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah, it’s gonna say ‘Don’t blame me:  I’m a convicted felon and not allowed to vote.’”

            Arthur chuckled.  “A bit long-winded for a bumper sticker.  And I don’t think you really want to go about admittin’ you’ve been in jail.”

            “Everyone already knows that.”

            “Maybe so, but why remind them?”

            Curt gave him a bemused look.  “You ashamed of me now?”

            “Never,” Arthur promised.

            Curt shut off the television, and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.  “I’m not sure I believe you.  Maybe we’d better go into the bedroom so you can prove it.”

            Arthur laughed.  “Any time, love.”

 

***

 

            Mid-November, Arthur got an airmail letter from an unfamiliar address in London.  The sender wasn’t anyone he’d heard of, either, worrying him that it might be a lawyer, writing to tell him that someone dear to him had died.  With that in mind, he couldn’t even force himself to take the lift back up to the flat before ripping the envelope open.

            “I hope you’ll forgive the unprofessionally personal nature of this communication,” the letter began, “but my name might be one you’ve seen before, since I am one of the few foreign subscribers to the magazine where you are at present employed.  I have heard so much about you that I often feel as though we’ve already met.  You and I have an ex in common, you see, and Percival spent a great deal of time talking about you.”

            Arthur suppressed a single, short laugh.  Months and months of pleading hadn’t moved Pearl to tell Arthur his birth name.  When he did eventually share, it was only because he had come up with some sex play regarding their legendary namesakes.  Pearl may have enjoyed it, but the whole thing had left Arthur feeling distinctly unclean, and he had never really been comfortable having sex with Pearl ever again.  Not that he had let on about that.

            Whoever this ex-boyfriend of Pearl’s was, he didn’t seem to be a lawyer, so Arthur felt relieved enough to go back up to the flat.  He really shouldn’t have stopped to open the letter in the first place, considering there was ice cream in one of his shopping bags.

            After getting the groceries put away and leaving the rest of the post on the kitchen counter, he headed into the bedroom and shut the door to keep out the noise from the living room, where Curt and Mick were playing something on the Nintendo.  Taking a seat on the bed, Arthur returned his attention to the mysterious letter.

            “Percival was quite proud of you when you began your career in journalism, and was always eager to share it with me, since that was my profession as well.  And, to be honest, I’ve been keeping an eye on your career even since breaking up with Percival, because I felt that your work showed great potential.  You’ve done some magnificent work for _Freedoms_ , but—if I may be frank—I think you and I both know that magazine’s time is almost up.  The homophobic regime of Reynolds will continue under another name, and the attacks on the freedom of the press are likely to continue.  Magazines like _Freedoms_ will be among the first to fall.

            “That, of course, is why I am taking the liberty of writing to you like this.  You see, I have recently been elevated to the position of editor-in-chief for the magazine _Orpheus_.  As you likely already know, while we are nominally focused exclusively on music, both past and present, in reality we also address other issues of popular interest, especially politics, and in the past fifteen years or so, the magazine has increasingly leaned towards issues of concern to the homosexual and bisexual communities.  One of our staff recently retired, leaving a position open.  Officially, the position is that of a ‘popular music historian.’  With your intimate connection to the glam rock scene, and your journalistic history as the man who revealed that Brian Slade had become Tommy Stone, I cannot imagine anyone who could be a better fit for that position.”

            The letter went on a bit further, explaining the position in more detail, and reminding Arthur that with American politics spiralling into a conservative hellscape, it was surely the right time to make the return trip back across the pond.  It was hard to take it in, though.

            A new job wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but in London?  If he was alone, that would be one thing.  How could he ask Curt to pick up and leave his home?  His home and his _son_.  Unless Mick were to come with them, putting thousands of miles of ocean between the boy and his mother.  No matter how Arthur looked at it, it was too selfish.  He couldn’t _possibly_ ask them to give up so much for him.

            “You stupid fucking dog!”  Curt’s bellow broke through the silence, shattering Arthur’s contemplations.  “I’ll teach you to laugh at me!”

            Grimacing, Arthur got to his feet.  Whatever Curt was on about, it was hardly the right time for it…

            Entering the living room, he found Curt aiming the Nintendo’s gun-like control device at the television, where an animated dog was chortling into one front paw.  Every time Curt’s finger pulled the little trigger, the dog’s laugh animation started over.  Mick, of course, was laughing hysterically as he sat on the floor next to his father.

            “Of all the bloody idiots…”  Arthur walked around the back of the sofa, over to the Nintendo, and turned it off.  Then he removed the cartridge.  “This game is goin’ away,” he said, looking at Curt.  “It makes you swear in front of the boy.”

            “I don’t mind!” Mick exclaimed, with another giggle.

            “Yeah, see?”

            “It’s also no good for your blood pressure, I’m sure.”  Arthur deposited the game into the drawer.  “I’ll put in something else.  What do you want to play?”

            “Let’s all play something together!” Mick suggested.  “You never play with us, Arthur!”

            “Yeah!” Curt agreed.  “You come sit your pretty little ass down next to me, and we’ll all play.”

            Arthur sighed.  “Only if you’re sittin’ on the sofa, not the floor,” he said.  Not that he had anything against sitting on the floor as such, only there really wasn’t enough room on that particular floor to accommodate him.  There was barely even room enough for _Curt_.  For both of them to sit there and still leave room enough for Mick?  Impossible.  “But there really aren’t any games made for three people.”

            “Well, yeah, ‘cause there’s only two controllers,” Curt chuckled.  “We’ll just take turns at something.  How about _Winter Games_?  You and Mick can compete first, and then the winner has to beat me.”

            Arthur shrugged.  Had to be better than _Duck Hunt_.  He hunted through the cartridges until he found the right one, then put it in the system, turned it on, and joined Curt on the sofa.  Mick was still on the floor, of course.

            Mick picked the USA as his country, while Arthur naturally picked Britain.  And he lost horribly.  He barely even knew how to play the thing, after all.  He liked to think he would have lost intentionally even if he did know how, in order to make Mick feel better, but…actually, he probably wouldn’t have had to.  These things took more time to master than he had—or was willing—to devote to them.

            Arthur passed his controller to Curt, who cycled through the list of available countries, and grumbled considerably about the lack of country choices, before eventually settling on France.  Mick turned to Arthur and stage-whispered that Curt usually picked Britain.

            "Shut up!  I do not!" Curt insisted, his cheeks flushing.  How rare to see Curt blush!  As if trying to change the subject, Curt hastily began the game.  It was close, but Curt just barely won.  Which made Mick demand a rematch.  Then Curt lost, and _he_ demanded a rematch.  They kept going like that until it was time for dinner.

            As punishment for acting every bit as immature as an eight year old, Arthur insisted Curt had to go and get take-out, rather than calling to have something delivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I've finally posted this chapter! Curt playing "Duck Hunt" was one of the first scenes I thought of for this story. :)
> 
> Unfortunately, I had to change something at the last second about "Winter Games." I'd only ever played it on PC (didn't even have an NES as a kid; my parents hated the idea of video games), so I didn't realize the nation choices were so limited on the NES until I looked it up like five minutes ago. So in the original version, Curt picked East Germany for his country, and Arthur hassled him a little about picking East instead of West. Well, not "hassled" so much as just "expressed his disbelief."


	40. Chapter 40

            Curt had waited until they went to bed to ask Arthur what was bothering him.  Mick was having enough trouble lately with trying to fit in at school; he didn’t need to worry about whatever was Arthur’s trouble, too.  From the look on Arthur’s face, he’d actually thought he was hiding it.  His naïveté could be cute…but it could also get annoying.  Still, Curt didn’t let on that he was irritated, just pressed for an explanation.

            Rather than explain, Arthur showed him the letter that had arrived that afternoon.  Curt didn’t get very far into it before he had to demand to know who the fuck Percival was.  He had _thought_ , after all this time, that he knew about all of Arthur’s exes!

            Arthur sighed deeply.  “You do pick the strangest things to get jealous about,” he said, shaking his head.  “Percival is Pearl’s real name.”

            “Oh.  Yeah, I see why he wanted to go by Pearl,” Curt chuckled.  He wasn’t completely cool with the knowledge that Arthur had still kept sleeping with the Flaming Creatures even after the Death of Glitter concert, but…since he hadn’t been there, he probably didn’t have much right to complain about it.

            Looking back at the letter, he found other things to concern him.  Like the fact that the guy writing it wanted Arthur to move back to England and start working for him.  “Are you going to do it?” he asked, as he gave the letter back.

            “Of course not,” Arthur answered, ridiculously quickly.  “My life’s here, with you.”

            “It’s not like I’m rooted to this spot,” Curt pointed out.  “If you want to—”

            “I don’t want to,” Arthur insisted, sliding his arms around Curt’s waist.  “Let’s just go to bed, love.  There’s nothing to talk about.”

            When Arthur said he didn’t want to talk about something, that usually meant he really _needed_ to talk about it.  But he could be pretty stubborn.  Trying to make him admit the truth could wait.  Especially when there was sex to be had…

            That fucking letter was still bothering Curt the next morning.  Arthur had worked really hard to distract him with particularly fantastic sex, but Curt wasn’t quite _that_ easily hoodwinked.  If this had happened a year ago, Curt would have already been calling real estate agents to sell the apartment.  He didn’t have any particular attachment to living in New York, and he probably had more friends in London than he did in the entire United States anyway.  But now there was Mick to worry about.  Candi would still be in jail at least another six months, probably a lot longer.

            At least the letter had good timing; it came on Friday, and Mick’s weekly visits to his mother in prison were on Saturdays.  This time, Curt asked Arthur to come with them to the prison, so he could have some time alone with Candi after Mick was finished with his visit.  Arthur didn’t like the idea—he’d only accompanied them once before, and he had insisted that once was enough—but Curt didn’t let him back out.  This was important.

            Unlike in the movies, where visitors could only talk to prisoners on the other side of a glass wall, the women’s prison where Candi was being held had a visiting room with tables and chairs, a bit like a lunch room.  There were usually other prisoners with visitors in there, sometimes being visited by husbands or boyfriends, sometimes by parents, and quite often being visited by their children.  Therefore, Curt and Mick had always seemed completely normal among the other visitors, especially with Mick exclaiming “Mommy!” and running over to hug her excitedly, despite what a lousy mother she’d been to him.

            They got more than a few stares with Arthur accompanying them, however.  A man and a child visiting a women’s prison was normal; two men and a child visiting was less common.  Arthur could have been a lawyer or something, though, so they didn’t get _that_ many suspicious looks, certainly not enough to justify the way Arthur was squirming.  He really hated being stared at.  Maybe it was a side-effect of being that gorgeous?  He must have turned the head of every gay or bisexual man in London every time he walked down the street back in the ‘70s.

            Candi looked surprised to see Arthur, but didn’t say anything about it, and just went through her usual practice of asking Mick how he was doing at school, and to share everything that had happened to him in the last week.  Curt couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying.  He was more distracted than usual by how shit Candi looked.  She’d told him months ago that she was done with the rehab program, and was fine now.  So why were her cheeks sunken, and her skin so pallid?  It was like she wasn’t eating…

            Eventually, the visit wound down, and Curt put a hand on Mick’s shoulder.  “If you’re done talking to your mom now, you and Arthur can go back outside.  I need to talk to her alone for a few minutes.”

            Mick looked at him curiously, then shrugged, and gave Candi her goodbye hug.  Arthur looked more suspicious, but he didn’t say anything—he hadn’t said a word the whole time they were there, in fact—and just accompanied Mick back out of the visiting room.

            “What’s up?” Candi asked, smiling at him curiously.

            “What the fuck are you doing to yourself?” Curt asked.  He knew he should start with the real reason, but he was too distracted by the way she looked half-dead.  “Don’t you dare tell me you’re on a hunger strike for some reason.”

            Candi laughed weakly, and shook her head.  “No, it’s nothing like that.  I haven’t had much appetite lately, that’s all.  But that can’t be what you wanted to talk about.”

            Curt sighed.  “No, it’s not,” he admitted, then explained about Arthur’s job offer in London.

            “You’re leaving the country?”

            “Arthur hasn’t decided to take the job yet.  But he hates the job he’s got right now, even if he won’t say so.  His editor is a slave driver who’s constantly threatening to fire him, even though he’s the best writer she’s got, and he has to work just as hard—if not _harder_ —than he did when he was at a daily newspaper, even though that magazine only goes out once a month.”  Curt shrugged.  “I think in his heart he probably misses England, too, but he won’t admit that, either.”

            “But if he goes, you and Mick are going with him, right?” Candi prompted.

            “Well, I sure as hell am.  I can’t…I can’t just take Mick away that easy, but…”  He sighed deeply.  “I think it’d be good for him, really.  He’s not happy at the school we’ve been sending him to.  He doesn’t have any friends, except my manager’s son, and I don’t think they’re even _really_ friends; I think Alicia told her son to be friends with him whether he liked it or not, you know?  Being a transfer student from the other side of the world would make him interesting and exotic.  And maybe kids in London wouldn’t be so quick to insult him for having a fag for a father.”  Or they might be worse about it.  Jack had told Curt a lot of horror stories about school kids in England, but that had been in the ‘50s.  They might have improved since then.

            Candi smiled, and set a hand on Curt’s knee.  “I think it’s a good idea,” she said, her eyes suddenly spilling tears.  “I…I didn’t want tell you yet…”

            “Tell me what?”

            “The prison ran all kinds of tests when I got here.  For health reasons and all, you know?”  Her smile faltered entirely as she tried to wipe the tears away.  “Ever since the results came back, I…I’ve been trying to think of how I could tell Mick that his mommy was gonna die…”

            “Shit…you…you’ve got AIDS?”  Between more than eight years of heroin use, and all the boyfriends, it was hardly surprising, but…

            Candi nodded.  “It hasn’t…I haven’t got any symptoms yet.  Maybe it won’t happen, or maybe it won’t happen for years, but the tests came back positive.”  She bit her lip.  “I’ve been worried if…”

            “I had Mick tested, just in case,” Curt told her.  “He’s clean.”

            “Oh, thank God!”  Candi gave him a big hug.  “I’ve spent so many nights crying myself to sleep, thinking I brought him into the world only for him to die horribly before being old enough to really live!”

            Curt stroked her back as Candi started crying onto his shoulder.  “You shoulda written me about it,” he said.  “Then at least I could have told you he was going to be okay.”

            They stayed like that until one of the guards brought the prison psychiatrist, who eased Candi off Curt, and led her away, promising to help her calm down.  Curt thought he wasn’t affected by any of it, but as he rejoined Arthur and Mick, he found Arthur giving him a worried look, too worried by half, considering Arthur had to know exactly what Curt had wanted to talk to Candi about.

            After Mick was safely in the car, Arthur shut the door, and looked at Curt.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.  “What happened in there?”

            Curt shook his head.   The doors of the GTO weren’t _that_ soundproof.  “I’ll tell you later,” he said, then opened his door and got in the car.  Arthur sighed and followed suit.

            Only once they were home and Mick was safely plopped down in front of a video game did Curt and Arthur step into the bedroom so Curt could explain about Candi’s condition.  “So she’s actually in favor of us leaving the country,” Curt concluded.

            “I said I wasn’t gonna take the job,” Arthur reminded him.

            “Yeah, but you want to take it.”

            “I don’t.”

            “Yeah, you do.”

            Arthur scowled at him, and shook his head.  “Even if I did, what would _you_ do?  Your career’s here.”

            “There are plenty of recording studios in London,” Curt laughed.  “My career’s been transplanted from one country to another before, you know.”

            “Yes, I know that, but your manager’s here.”

            “She’s not the only manager in the world.  Besides, I’ve been thinking I might want to slow down, take a breather.  That tour really knocked the shit outta me.”

            “But…if Mick’s mum is dying, shouldn’t he stay here to have as much time with her as he can?”

            “So he can watch her deteriorate with nothing he can do to help her?  That’d be torture for him.”

            “If he’s not with her, he’ll regret it when he grows up,” Arthur pointed out.

            “Probably.  But he’d regret being with her, too.”  Curt sighed.  “Look, don’t let that have any impact on your decision, okay?  If you take the job, we can always have Candi transferred to a clinic in London once she’s out of jail.  It’s been known to happen in the other direction, after all.”  Tommy had paid to have Cecil brought to a clinic in upstate New York, even though that meant there was someone else nearby who might spill his secret.  Or maybe, deep down, that had been the _reason_ he had done it.

            Arthur frowned.  “You actually _want_ me to take the job.  Is that it?”

            “Look at what this country’s like right now!  It’s gotta be better than staying here.”

            “Don’t forget about Thatcher,” Arthur sighed.  “She’s almost as bad as Reynolds.”

            “She doesn’t have as much power as Reynolds is still going to have even after Blaine is President.”

            Arthur shrugged.  “Maybe.  But we don’t even know the offer is legitimate, Curt.  I haven’t talked to Pearl about it.  What if it’s some kind of bizarre trick?”

            “Why would anyone bother?  What would be the point?”

            “I don’t know.  But…”  Arthur paused, shaking his head.  “I’ll call Pearl and ask him about this bloke.  See what he thinks of the offer.”

            “Yeah, good idea.  But don’t let him think we’re breaking up!  I don’t want him trying to poach you away from me!”

            Arthur laughed, and kissed him.  “Don’t worry about that, love.  I could never leave you.”


	41. Chapter 41

            By the beginning of December, Arthur had been called—repeatedly—by all four of his former flatmates/lovers, begging him to take the job at _Orpheus_.  Pearl had told him over and over again that Steve, his prospective new boss, was _such_ a nice chap, and how well he’d surely treat Arthur.  Malcolm had said that Curt could perform at his club, which would help both the club and Curt at the same time.  Ray had reminded Arthur that thanks to his urging, the band had gotten back together again, though they had changed their name to the Effing Creatures, to allow the younger generation to think they were ‘fucking’ instead of ‘flaming.’  And Billy had pointed out just how shite things were in America now, and how England was still so much better, especially in that no one on the streets of England carried guns.

            It wasn’t that he didn’t see their points.  Or even that he didn’t largely share their opinion.  But the idea of going back to London…

            Why had he come to America in the first place?  If he had just come chasing Curt, then he had certainly been successful in his pursuit, and could feel no shame in going back, since Curt would be going with him.  If he had gone seeking professional success…well, he’d had more of that in New York than he had in London, but he was far from being a Pulitzer Prize winner.  But it wasn’t really either of those things.  Arthur was pretty sure of that.  He would have claimed at the time that it was seeking a level of success that had eluded him in London.  The subconscious desire to be closer to Curt had certainly been part of it, too.

            In truth, though, he was pretty sure that he had really left London to get away.  To escape everyone who had been mocking him.  Even after the Flaming Creatures had broken up and Arthur had been living alone, it seemed as though everyone knew he was their ‘cute little boyfriend,’ a pathetic little creature who lived only to provide sexual gratification to older men.  He hadn’t been able to escape that image, and people had laughed at him wherever he went, sometimes openly, but more usually with quiet whispers and laughter half-hidden behind hands.

            At first, he _had_ escaped that.  No one in New York knew about his past, and no one had cared, either.  New Yorkers were good at not caring.  But then he had gotten involved with Curt, and photos of them _in flagrante_ had ended up being printed first in a local paper, and then in national tabloids.  And now everyone was again considering him ‘nothing but a fag.’  The fact that he worked for a magazine focussed on issues like gay rights didn’t help, of course, but people seeing him on the streets didn’t know where he worked.  But they did know they had seen his face before, and they knew where, and they weren’t above laughing at him for it.

            Curt always told him he was just being paranoid, of course.  Said that if two girls were looking at him, whispering and giggling, they were probably talking about how ‘cute’ he was, and wondering what he’d do if they tried to chat him up.  But Arthur knew better.  Girls never tried to chat him up.  They had to be laughing at him, because they knew he was involved with another man, and they thought that made him lesser than they were.

            That hadn’t changed when he moved from Manchester to London.  It hadn’t changed for long when he moved from London to New York.  It wouldn’t change if he moved back to London.  Maybe it would even get worse.

            It had been a defeat when he left London for New York.  It had been admitting that he hadn’t run far enough.  That he wasn’t strong enough to handle life in London alone.

            Would it be a defeat if he returned to London?  He wasn’t running now—though the prospect of Reynolds having an indirect third term was enough to make any sane individual want to flee the country—but taking a job that had been offered to him, even though there must have been more worthy candidates closer to home.  But it had been a long time since he had tried facing life alone.  Maybe he hadn’t been up to the task of living alone in New York any more than he had been in London.  Did that make him a failure?  Or was he a success, since he had found something better than life alone?

            No matter how many times he turned the issues over and over in his head, Arthur was no more certain of what he should do.  The job at _Orpheus_ couldn’t be worse than the job at _Freedoms_.  He was relatively certain of that.  On the other hand, the thought of no longer having an ocean between himself and his father and brother was unpleasant.  He didn’t ever want to see either of them again, no question.

            Curt was actively trying to convince him to take the job by this point.  He had apparently discussed it with Tommy Stone—of all the bizarre things to do—who had given him some rather odd advice on how to encourage Arthur to take the job.  And someone—either Curt or Tommy—had told Mandy, who seemed to find humour in needling them about the situation, rather than trying to convince him one way or the other.  It had gotten to the point where the telephone only seemed to ring if it was someone trying to tell Arthur what he should do with the rest of his life.

            So he was taken aback, early on a Tuesday afternoon, when the person on the other end of the line was someone from Mick’s school.  “Due to the seriousness of the fight, we’re asking you and the boy’s father both to come in and speak to the principal,” the woman on the other end of the phone told him.

            “Mick’s been fightin’?” Arthur repeated, astonished.  Despite the one scuffle early in his time at that school, there had been no incidents.  And the child was so gentle and friendly at home!  “Yes, of course we’ll come in.  When should we come?”

            “As soon as possible,” the woman said, then abruptly hung up on him.

            Rudeness of the woman at the school aside, this was a serious situation, and Arthur wasn’t about to ignore it.  He explained the situation to Curt, and they were soon in the car, on the way to Mick’s school.  Curt was unusually silent, with a brooding expression on his face.  Arthur couldn’t be sure if he was angry or worried, or some combination of the two.

            As they walked silently through the parking lot and then the school’s halls, Arthur realised that Curt’s silence was to ensure that he didn’t blow up at the wrong person or in the wrong place.  He was trying to force his temper down, but the only way he could do that was by cutting himself off from the world entirely.  With that in mind, Arthur did all the talking on the way into the principal’s office, explaining who they were and why they were there.

            The principal’s office was a grim place, without windows or decorations beyond framed degrees and awards.  The principal was a man in his sixties, with a carefully trimmed beard and a sour expression on his face.  A young woman, perhaps only in her late twenties, stood beside him.  In front of his desk were two chairs, one occupied by a very cowed-looking Mick, and the other occupied by an unrepentantly smug-looking, husky young boy with a split lip and an eye that was already turning black.

            Mick cheered up at the sight of Curt’s arrival, and beamed a big smile at his father, though the smile deflated instantly on seeing that it wasn’t returned.  The other boy aimed a disgusted look of hate at both of them.

            “What happened?” Curt asked, his voice straining to keep measured.

            “It’s not my fault!” Mick exclaimed.  “Johnny started it!” he added, pointing at the other boy.

            The principal cleared his throat to get their attention, but he didn’t speak.  Instead, the woman moved a little closer to his desk.  “I’m sure you know that this school has very strict policies regarding the behaviour of the students,” she said, giving them a stern look.  “We cannot allow common roughhousing to disgrace a house of learning.”

            “Excuse my ignorance, but who are you, exactly?” Arthur asked.  “You’re not Mick’s homeroom teacher.”  Unless Mick had been lying to them since September, his teacher was a man.

            “Sally Anderson,” the woman informed him.  “ _Mrs_. Sally Anderson, physical education teacher.”

            Arthur nodded.  “What happened to cause the fight?” he asked.

            “That is irrelevant,” Mrs. Anderson insisted.  “Your son,” she said, turning her head to look at Curt, “fell upon and viciously beat this poor, innocent boy after PE, and it took two teachers to remove him.”

            Curt glanced down at Mick, who was once again looking quite ashamed of himself, looked at the other boy, and then looked back at the teacher.  “But he says the other boy started it.”

            “Even if John said something to provoke him, the fact remains that your son is the only one who dealt any physical blows.  This is unacceptable behaviour.”

            Curt shook his head, and looked at Mick.  “What did he say?” he asked.

            “He was insulting you,” Mick said.  “You and Arthur.”

            So the fight was actually _their_ fault.  Just like the last one…

            “This,” said the principal, “is why we ordinarily have the policy to refuse students who do not have the proper balancing influence of two parents.”

            “You’re blaming this on _us_?” Curt demanded, starting to seethe.

            The other boy started laughing.  “Of _course_ he is!” he exclaimed.  “It’s your own fault for being a couple of butt-loving faggots!”

            “You piece of shit!”  Curt might actually have hit the boy if Arthur hadn’t grabbed his arm.  Hopefully he wouldn’t have—he had very little history of violence against other human beings—but if he had…

            Ignorant of, or perhaps unconcerned by, his own peril, the boy stuck his tongue out at Curt.

            “Is that what he called us before, Mick?” Arthur asked.

            “No, it was much worse.”

            “I take it the other boy’s parents ‘aven’t gotten here yet?” he asked, looking at the principal.

            “Why would Johnny’s parents be coming?” the principal replied.  “He’s done nothing wrong.  It’s your little monster who’s broken the school rules.”

            Was this what America was coming to?  Who in God’s name would ever want to live in such a shite country?

            “Curt, you and Mick go on back to the car,” he said.  “I’ll join you in a minute.”

            Curt looked at him curiously, then let out a half-repressed laugh, and helped Mick out of his chair, leading him out of the room.  Once they were gone, Arthur looked at the other boy.  “Get out, you filthy little wanker.  And remember that you aren’t always going to be able to get away with this kind of shite.”

            “I won’t have you using that kind of language in front of my students,” the principal said sternly, getting to his feet, even as the boy began to saunter towards the door.

            “You’ve no room to talk to anyone about anything!” Arthur snapped at him.  “You’re a reprehensible excuse for a human being, and the thought that you’re bein’ allowed to shape the minds of a whole bloody generation gives me the shudders!”

            “Do you think attacking me will make us overlook your…that boy’s disgraceful conduct?” the principal retorted.

            “You’re already overlookin’ the truly disgraceful conduct.”

            “If we were overlooking it, you wouldn’t be here,” Mrs. Anderson replied, in a self-congratulatory tone.

            “You didn’t say a word to reproach that boy for callin’ us faggots.”

            “But you _are_ faggots.”

            “Would you let him get away with callin’ a black man a coon?  Would you let him call you a cunt?”

            “How dare you use that kind of language in a school?!” Mrs. Anderson shouted, her whole face flushing.  “Even as an example, that’s entirely inappropriate!”

            “It’s exactly the same.”

            “Except that a black man or a woman cannot help being as they are,” the principal said, in a surprisingly calm voice.  “You and the boy’s father have chosen to defy society and live as sinners against God.”

            “You do realise that your country was founded on the freedom of religion, don’t you?”

            “Of course, but all religions forbid homosexuality, because it is a sickness,” the principal insisted.

            “Psychiatry says differently,” Arthur replied, with a grin that might have been just a tiny bit twisted.  “According to Freud, _religion_ is the sickness.”  Not that Freud had any respect for homosexuality, either, but he doubted the principal knew that.  Judging by the bulging eyes and stammering, he was in no state to come up with such a rational reply at any rate.  “I’ll be reportin’ your conduct to the state’s educational board,” Arthur added, as he headed for the door.  “But before I go, you ought to know that even after we pull Mick to send him to a more respectable institution, you’ll still have students with gay parents.  At least a dozen of ‘em.”

            Before either of them could reply, Arthur left the room, closing the door behind him.  It hadn’t been nearly the kind of withering lecture he’d intended to give them, but at least they had been jolted out of their Reynolds-inspired coma a little bit.  Even if they slipped right back down again, that had to count for _something_.

            Arthur went to the school secretary, and smiled at her pleasantly.  “I’ll be needin’ a copy of Mick Wild’s student records,” he told her.

            “What for?” the woman asked.

            “He’ll be attendin’ school in London, startin’ in January.  The new school will want to see his records.”

            The secretary nodded, got out of her chair and went to a filing cabinet.  “It shouldn’t take long to photocopy them,” she told him, “but it might take a while to find them.  Shall I just mail them to you?”

            “That’s fine, thanks.  We won’t be leavin’ for a while yet.”

            By the time Arthur caught up to Curt and Mick, they were already sitting in the car waiting for him.  “So…?” Curt prompted, as soon as he got in.

            Arthur looked over the seat at Mick.  “You’d like to go to a different school, right?”

            “Yes!”

            “You don’t mind goin’ to one out of town, do you?”

            “Um…you’re not sending me away, are you?” Mick asked, his little lip trembling.

            Arthur laughed.  “Of course not.  Your father’d get far too lonely if we did that.”  Curt yelped a wordless objection, but otherwise didn’t interrupt.  “I was thinkin’ all of us could pick up and move.”

            “Just ‘cause I beat up a jerk at school?”

            “I’ve had a job offer back in London…”


	42. Chapter 42

            As much as it had made him feel tough and powerful to decide so abruptly that he _would_ take the job and transplant their little family across the Atlantic, Arthur had to admit that it was also a ruddy terrible pain in the arse to achieve that move.

            While Arthur set about making frantic calls to Malcolm and to his new employer, Curt had to deal with getting Mick a passport, and filling out all the other paperwork involved in having a child under the age of ten move from one country to another.  The fact that this was all happening in December, when the mails were slowed down with Christmas cards and packages was not helping, either.

            At least a few things would be simpler than they might be.  Malcolm had plenty of empty rooms above the club, so they’d be able to stay with him until they could find a place of their own in London, and Alicia’s husband, as a lawyer who regularly dealt with real estate, would be able to handle the sale of the flat for them after they left.  Though it was surprising he was willing to do them any favours—even paid ones—considering his wife’s livelihood was moving across the ocean.

            At least Arthur’s new employer, Steve, was doing everything he could to help.  He was going to give Arthur a one-time bonus payment, an advance of sorts, in order to aid them in purchasing someplace to live in London.  It wouldn’t be nearly enough, of course, but Curt’s tour over the summer had been quite popular, so they were at no shortage of funds just at present.  Steve had also set one of his assistants to looking into the best schools in London, particularly ones where his father’s romantic relationship with another man wouldn’t make Mick into too much of a target for the school bullies.

            As their departure date drew nearer and nearer, all three of them began to be overwhelmed by the prospect of packing up all their belongings.  This was the first time Arthur had ever had to move that he actually owned anything substantial, and trying to decide what would go and what wasn’t needed turned out to be surprisingly difficult.

            About the time that they decided to leave behind all of the furniture, Curt started to say that maybe they shouldn’t sell the flat, but keep it in case they ever wanted to come back to visit New York.  At first, Arthur thought it was a joke, but after a while, he realised that Curt actually meant it.  Though it didn’t really seem like the best idea, Arthur agreed to it, and during the combination Christmas and farewell party—held at Tommy Stone’s ludicrously luxurious penthouse flat, which was filled to bursting with Shannon’s glee that Curt was no longer going to be on the same continent as her husband—they left the spare keys with Mandy, asking her to look after the place for them.  She promised not to hold _too_ many parties there.  By that point, Arthur didn’t even care if she was joking.  He was too exhausted to care.

            Fortunately, they were all equally exhausted, which let them all sleep through most of the lengthy flight from New York back to London.  After exiting Customs, Arthur looked around for Malcolm, or one of the others, but he saw no one he knew.  There was a man who looked rather familiar, but Arthur couldn’t quite place him.

            Curt could.  He walked right over to the guy and clapped him on the shoulder.  “Trevor?!  What the fuck are you doing here?”  So that was why he looked familiar?  That was Trevor Finn, the lead guitarist from the Venus in Furs?  Well, at least Malcolm was still connected…

            “Came to pick you up,” Trevor said.  “The Creatures thought it might seem a bit dodgy if one of them came.”  Trevor’s eyes glanced briefly in Arthur’s direction, then returned to Curt.

            “What are you up to these days?”

            “Oh, bit of this, some of that, whatever pays the bills.”  Trevor shrugged.  “I’ve dabbled in managing, a little producing, but I guess mostly I’m still just playing the guitar for whoever needs it.  Malcolm says you’ll be appearing at his club.  Need some back-up?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Curt agreed.  “Anyway, I hope you brought a big car.  We’ve got a shit tonne of luggage.”

            Trevor laughed.  “I came in the club’s van.  If you’ve got more than can fit in there, you can bloody well carry the rest.”

            Arthur felt Mick’s hand tugging on his wrist.  “Who’s that?” Mick hissed up at him, when Arthur looked down at him.

            “His name’s Trevor.  He’s a musician who used to work with Brian Slade.  And sometimes with your father.”

            “Oh.  Is he as good as Dad?”

            “No, but he is quite good.”

            “Okay,” Mick said, with a cheerful little smile.  Then he walked over to his father and demanded that they get out of the airport, because he was bored.  Fortunately, Trevor didn’t seem to mind the boy’s rudeness.


	43. Chapter 43

            Curt had been a little worried about having agreed to temporarily live at a club owned by one of the Flaming Creatures, on top of having promised to perform there.  The little subdivision of rock they had all resided in had had its share of odd caricatures:  Brian and Jack had been the glamor, Curt had been the angry young man…but the Flaming Creatures hadn’t really fit into any neat archetype.  Their music was good, if sometimes bizarre, but those four themselves…seeing them in costume just made the brain rebel.  Off stage, they were no more oddly dressed than anyone else in the glam rock scene, but on stage it seemed to be their intention to confuse.  They played up their masculinity while simultaneously wearing dresses, long wigs or too much make-up:   unlike Jack, who had folded himself so neatly into the gap between male and female that he became a blurring of the line, they had made a spectacle of their mishmashing of the two sides of the line, human patchwork gender-quilts.

            So, given what he’d been like on stage, Malcolm owning a club seemed like a disaster waiting to happen.  First floor Cubist, second floor upside down, third floor…well, any number of crazy things seemed possible.  Therefore, when the van arrived at the club, Curt was relieved to see that it was a completely ordinary nightclub.  Maybe the walls sparkled a bit more than most, but it didn’t look like Magritte and Salvador Dali had each designed half of it in a bitter competition with Picasso.

            It was about noon when they got there, and all four of the Flaming Creatures were sitting around a table with sandwiches in front of them.  They leapt to their feet as soon as Arthur entered the room, and ran over to start hugging him and chattering all at once.  Curt tried to endure it as long as he could…but that wasn’t very long.

            “Get the fuck off him!” he shouted, shoving them away.  “You don’t got to be so damned touchy-feely!”

            “Curt, calm down, love,” Arthur said, setting a gentle hand on Curt’s shoulder.  “They were just sayin’ hello.”

            “They don’t have to grab your ass to say hello.”

            “No one was grabbin’ my arse,” Arthur sighed.  Even though Curt was _positive_ he had seen at least one hand there.  Possibly two or three.

            “Dad, I’m hungry,” Mick complained, tugging on his hand.  “I want breakfast.”

            Mick drawing attention to himself set Pearl—or Percival, or whatever he was calling himself now—to cooing over how adorable he was.  Which terrified Mick, and sent him hiding behind Curt.  Well, it was hard to blame him.  Pearl hadn’t aged too well, and he’d been sort of freaky to begin with.  Arthur cajoled Pearl into laying off, and Malcolm headed off to the club’s kitchen to see what the cooks could get ready quickly, while Trevor and the rest of the Creatures went out to start ferrying in the luggage.  Curt knew he ought to help them, since it was _his_ luggage and all, but he was so tired that he really didn’t want to.  When Arthur went out to help, though, then he _had_ to.

            By the time they finished getting the luggage out of the van, the kitchen had provided three plates of toast and scrambled eggs.  Not his favorite breakfast, but Curt was willing to take what he could get.

            As the three of them ate their breakfast—and the Flaming Creatures and Trevor ate their lunch—everyone started discussing plans for the immediate future.  “First things first, you need to rest and get over your jet lag,” Malcolm was saying.  “You can stay here as long as you want, so there’s no need to worry about that.”

            “Ideally, I’d like us to be in a new place by the time Mick starts school, but I suppose that’s hopin’ too much,” Arthur sighed.  “Still, we need to start lookin’ as soon as possible.”

            “Nothing’s going to happen between now and the New Year,” Ray said.  “Just stay here and relax until then.”

            “You’ll want to be feeling better in time for our New Year’s Eve party,” Pearl added.  “We’ve been planning it as your welcome home party, you know.”

            “I don’t need a welcome home party,” Arthur sighed.

            “You might not need one, but you’re getting one anyway,” Billy laughed.  “Think of it as celebrating that you got away from Reynolds and Blaine before they could make your very way of life a crime.”

            Even Arthur couldn’t argue with that.

            After they’d eaten, the lengthy process of trying to recover from packing up their lives had to slowly begin.  At first, there was all too much sleeping, but by the 30th, they were recovered from the drain of all that packing, and had gotten more or less acclimated to the new time zone.  The acclimation process was a lot harder than the last time Curt had gone through it.  But back then, he’d been a lot younger, and he’d been buoyed by drugs, and in one direction by the excitement of a new—if ultimately ill-conceived—romance.  This time he had a body that was trying to force him to remember he was now over the hill, no drugs, and a love that had been going on long enough that it was hard to get as excited as he used to just by thinking about being with his lover.  Stability was good, but it wasn’t exciting.

            Arthur had begun the process of looking for a new place on the 29th, though he wasn’t sure if they should be looking for a large apartment or a house.  Curt wanted another apartment—no lawn or other shit to take care of—but Arthur seemed to want a house.  Mick didn’t care, but he did keep insisting he wanted a dog, tipping the scales a bit in favor of a house.

            Despite having spent a full day looking, Arthur hadn’t found any promising leads by lunch on the 30th.  Curt was quite sure that was normal, but Arthur seemed let down by it.  He always had such unrealistic expectations from himself.

            Though the club wouldn’t open until late in the afternoon, they were all sitting down at one of the club’s tables to eat.  They typically ate lunch down there, because the front doors of the club were usually unlocked during daylight hours, to accept deliveries of food and booze and God only knows what, and Malcolm understandably wanted to keep an eye on who came and went—though why he wanted all those deliveries coming in the front instead of the back was beyond Curt.  Being the day before New Year’s Eve, there were a lot more deliveries coming in than usual, so most of them had taken to ignoring the comings and goings.

            There were six of them at lunch that day:  Curt, Arthur and Mick, naturally, as well as Malcolm and two of his more important employees at the club.  The other three Creatures had day jobs now, and Trevor had a wife and kids to spend his time with, which still surprised Curt, because he’d always thought that Trevor was exclusively gay.

            The lunch itself was pretty quiet, as Malcolm and his employees were going over figures of deliveries and such in hushed voices, and Mick had gotten tired of whining about all his toys being packed up and the fact that they’d left the Nintendo in New York.  Most of the conversation had been Arthur telling Curt about all the places he’d looked at so far for them to move into, broken only by momentary silences as he took a bite to eat or a sip of his tea.

            At the end of one of those silences, Arthur’s cup nearly slipped from his fingers.  He hastily set it down again, his eyes staring straight ahead of him, towards the doors to the street.  As Arthur rose to his feet, he murmured the word “Mum,” before leaving the table and rushing over to the woman who had just entered.

            Curt could only watch from his chair, unsure what to do.  By the time he had finished turning to see what was going on, Arthur had almost reached his mother.  When he got there, he hesitated, his body language so awkward that it even made Curt uncomfortable.  It was only when the woman’s face started showing a sad sort of smile that Arthur finally bent down to wrap her in a hug.

            “Dad?” Mick whispered.  “What’s going on?”

            A glance across the table at Malcolm told Curt what was going on:  based on the gentle yet also somewhat self-satisfied expression showing on his face, he or one of the other Creatures must have sent for the woman.  Arthur _had_ mentioned that they sometimes used to encourage him to try to get in touch with her.  Curt told Mick to stay where he was, then got out of his chair.  Better not to complicate things.

            By the time Curt drew near to his lover, he could hear Arthur apologizing over and over again to his mother, mostly for not having ever contacted her since running away.  Nearly a full fifteen years had elapsed, and that was all he could think of to say to her?  Curt actually felt a bit sorry for her.  She looked pretty old, late fifties or even early sixties, much older than Curt would have expected Arthur’s mother to be.  But maybe she looked older than she was; she _was_ crying pretty heavily, so that might have been making her look old.

            Eventually, Curt got close enough that Arthur’s mother noticed him, and let go of her son to start wiping at the tears on her face.  Arthur let go, too, and turned to look at Curt.  Shit, he was crying, too.  Maybe Curt should have stayed over at the table….

            “Mum, this is Curt.  He’s my…ah…”

            “I know,” his mother said, turning a very uncomfortable smile at Curt.  “I saw the photos.”  Her words made Arthur wince.

            Fuck, this was awkward.  That woman was looking at Curt like he had personally stolen away her baby.  Despite that he didn’t meet Arthur until six months after the boy had run away, and even then it had only been a one night stand… “Uh…hi…” Curt said, holding out his hand.  He had to say _something_ , surely.

            The gesture was tentative, but Arthur’s mother _did_ take his hand, clasping it with both of her own.  “I…Arthur seems…thank you for taking such good care of my son,” she finally said, her voice trembling with every word.

            “Oh, I…no, he’s always taking care of me, too…it’s…it’s my pleasure to…”  Curt coughed, deciding to stop talking before he made an even bigger ass of himself.  Crying women weren’t his thing to begin with, and crying _old_ women even less so.  Add to the that the fact that he’d been fucking her son for the last four years, and he didn’t even want to be in the same room with her, let alone trying to talk to her.

            Arthur and his mother both made some abortive attempts to speak, but they were mostly standing there in an uncomfortable silence until a little voice spoke from behind Curt.  “Dad?”

            Turning to look at his son, Curt saw that the boy was crying almost as heavily as Arthur and his mother.  “What’s wrong?”

            Instead of answering, Mick walked up past him, looking up at Arthur’s mother.  Then he looked over at Arthur.  “She’s—she’s your mom?” he asked around his sniffles.

            “That’s right,” Arthur said, his voice even more gentle than usual.  “Mum, this is Mick, Curt’s son.”  Then he leaned over and whispered something in her ear.  Presumably explaining where Mick’s mother was.

            “Oh, you poor child!”  Arthur’s mother knelt down in front of Mick and pulled him close in a huge hug.  Yeah, that was definitely what Arthur had told her.

            Surprisingly, Mick hugged her back instead of squirming, and started bawling like an infant.  Arthur was still crying, too.  Glancing back at the table, Malcolm and both his employees were _also_ crying.  Fuck.  Was Curt really the only one _not_ crying?

            Well, he _was_ the only one in the room who’d ever been tortured at his own mother’s say-so.  Maybe that had something to do with it.

            They might have stayed like that indefinitely if a shipment of booze and shit hadn’t arrived through the front door of the club right behind them.  Only then did Arthur suggest that they go upstairs, where they’d be out of the way, so that he could tell his mother about everything that had happened in his life, and she could fill him in on everything that had happened to her.

            The two of them headed for the stairs—to the tune of Malcolm promising to send up a pot of fresh tea and some snacks—and Mick started to follow them.  Curt held him back with a hand on his shoulder.  “Let them be alone, Mick.”

            “But…”

            “I’m sure Arthur’s mom will want to spend lots of time getting to know you,” especially considering Mick was probably the closest she’d ever get to having a grandchild, “but let Arthur be alone with her for a while first, okay?”

            Mick made an unhappy noise of assent.

            “C’mon, let’s go wash the snot off your face, and then I’ll take you to buy a new Nintendo, okay?”

            That brightened Mick up considerably.  “Okay!” he chirped, but then his mood instantly soured again.  “I still don’t see why we had to leave the old one at home,” he grumbled.  “We’ll have to buy all the games over, too!”

            “Yeah, but an American Nintendo won’t work in England.”

            “Why not?” Mick asked, as Curt led him towards the men’s room.

            “Look at an electric socket sometime,” Curt chuckled.  “You’d never be able to plug it in here.  And even if you could, their TVs use a different kind of signal or something.  Can’t play a video tape from England in the US, either.”

            “Oh.  Why?”

            Curt shrugged.  “Beats the shit outta me.  Bad planning, I guess.”  He was just glad the problem didn’t extend to records and audio cassettes.  If he’d had to leave all his records behind…


	44. Chapter 44

            Arthur was still a bit of an emotional wreck by the New Year’s Eve party.  His mother had decided to stay above the club with them for an unspecified amount of time.  Possibly all the way until they had a new place to live, as awkward as _that_ would be.  Just having her around left Curt in an irritable state of mind.  What the fuck was he supposed to call her?  She’d introduced herself as Sylvia, but surely he wasn’t supposed to address her by her first name?  And he couldn’t call her ‘Mrs. Stuart,’ because that would make him feel uncomfortably like a high school kid addressing his date’s parents.  But he was not about to call her ‘Mom,’ even though she had already instructed Mick to call her ‘Gran.’

            Honestly, Curt was more ticked off at Malcolm and the other Creatures for their interference than anything else.  They had called Arthur’s mother without asking his permission, _and_ asked her to come to London to see him, without having any idea if Arthur actually _wanted_ to see her again.  Admittedly, he had wanted to, but they still should have asked first.  And they should have had the decency to wait until Arthur had settled in before dumping all that extra emotional trauma on him.  They meant well, but they hadn’t put one drop of thought into it.

            At least her presence was going to make New Year’s Eve less uncomfortable.  She was going to watch Mick for them while they were down at the party, though Curt doubted Mick would get much sleep with such a raucous time going on right under the floorboards.

            The evening started at dinner time—a bit of a late dinner, by the standards Mick had forced them to start adhering to over the last year—when Arthur’s official ‘welcome home’ party started.  Malcolm hadn’t stopped at inviting all of Arthur’s friends and acquaintances from the ‘70s, but had also invited everyone who was in his own current circle of friends and professional contacts, meaning there were a lot of performers present who were definitely _not_ people Arthur had ever known back in the day.  Curt knew almost all of them, though.  The entire band of the Venus in Furs had shown up, as well as several other back-up bands that he and Brian had sometimes worked with, so it was really more of a reunion party for Curt than it was for Arthur.

            Mick’s usual bedtime was nine o’clock, but in honor of it being New Year’s Eve, they were letting him stay up until ten, so long as he didn’t start yawning and otherwise looking tired.  By the time ten rolled around, the boy could barely keep his eyes open, yet he kept complaining that he didn’t want to go to bed, and wanted to stay at the party.  Curt eventually cut a deal with him that Mick would go to bed if Curt got up on the stage and sang a song for him.  Thankfully, he was willing to let Curt pick the song.  It would have been humiliating if he’d had to get up there and sing a kid’s song or something.

            Since he didn’t have anything prepared, Curt asked the Venus in Furs to perform as his back-up band—though some of them weren’t still performing regularly, and none of them had worked with each other in years—doing a number they all knew.  It was one of the ones he had performed a year ago at the live concert, but somehow performing it on the stage in London made it feel even more right.  Though this time Curt wasn’t wearing any eyeliner, or even nail polish.

            After the song, Mick sadly said ‘goodnight,’ and went upstairs to go to bed.  As soon as he was gone, Curt felt Arthur’s arms wrapping around him from behind.  “I always love hearin’ you sing,” Arthur cooed into his ear.  “Even if it makes me wonder what I could ‘ave done to earn such a fine man.”

            Curt laughed, shaking his head as he turned to face his lover.  “I think I’m the one who’s out of his league here,” he insisted, before giving Arthur a deep, passionate kiss.

            By the time they were done kissing, another band had gotten up on stage and started playing.  They weren’t very good, though, so Curt and Arthur moved as far from the stage as they could.  Didn’t actually help much.

            They were soon joined by the Flaming Creatures, who hadn’t left Arthur alone for a single fucking minute the whole night.  Even Arthur wanted them to lay off.  At least, that was what Curt assumed was his reason for asking “Aren’t you gonna go up on stage and play?”

            “Closer to midnight,” Malcolm assured him.  “I still have to keep an eye on the staff, after all.  It’s no fun, trying to be responsible.”

            “Yeah, tell me about it,” Curt laughed.

            “You’d better promise not to do any dancing,” Billy said, poking Arthur in the chest.  “Malcolm doesn’t have the liability insurance for it.”

            “I’m not _that_ bad!” Arthur exclaimed, swatting his hand away.  “And I wasn’t plannin’ on doin’ any dancin’ anyway!”

            “What…?”

            “Our dear little friend here can’t dance to save his life,” Pearl explained, patting Arthur on the head as if he was a child.  “It’s a miracle no one’s eye was ever put out.”

            “I am not that bad,” Arthur repeated, stressing every single world with an angry precision.

            “You’re like a giraffe having a spasm,” Ray told him.

            “I’m not!”

            Curt was already laughing even before Arthur started his objection.  “I’d like to see that,” he said between chortles.

            “Oi, if you ever wanna get laid again, you’d better stop bloody laughin’ at me.”

            Curt sighed, and pulled Arthur closer to him by means of an arm around his waist.  “That’d punish you just as much as me, baby.”

            “Well…but…yeah…” Arthur slowly admitted, making the Creatures all start chuckling.

            Arthur remained petulant until his former roommates finally left them alone.  And even then he was still grumpy, forcing Curt to apply a little seduction to make him cheer up.  Maybe being back in London was making him revert to being a teenager?  Given how hot he was as a teenager, Curt didn’t exactly want to complain about that…

            …but thinking about it while he was still trying to cheer Arthur up was probably a mistake, because he overdid the seduction to the point that they had to slip into the john for a quick one.  There was something about sneaking around to have sex in a public place that really made it extra satisfying.  It wasn’t something Curt wanted to do on a regular basis, but once in a while was great.

            They had barely calmed down enough to order more drinks when Trevor approached them, with his arm around a beautiful Indian woman.  “This is Chandra, my wife,” he told them, before introducing them to her in turn.  “If I’ll be playing back-up for you,” he went on, looking at Curt, “you’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other.”

            “Makes sense,” Curt agreed.  His mind hadn’t quite come down off the sex high enough to have an intelligent conversation…

            “What do you do for a livin’?” Arthur asked her.

            “I’m an artist,” she told him.  “Though I have to find illustration work to earn any money off my work.”

            “She does adverts mostly,” Trevor added, “but sometimes she gets a nice gig doing a children’s book.”

            “Illustrated any good books lately?” Curt asked.  “We’re trying to keep my son reading so he won’t turn into an idiot like me.”  Arthur elbowed him with a disappointed look, as he usually did when Curt insulted his own intellect.  But he wasn’t stupid enough to think he was smart.  Better to be truthful about himself.  Though maybe it wasn’t so much stupidity as lack of education…

            “It’s been a while, sadly,” Chandra replied.  “I think Simone’s latest book was the last one I did.”

            “Simone?” Arthur repeated.

            “Simone Dancer,” Trevor told him.  “Chandra went to uni with her.”

            “Mick loves her book on Greek mythology,” Arthur told them.  “You did the illustrations for that?”

            “Well, her mythology books are a little different.  It’s mostly just copying ancient art.  But yes, that was my work.”

            “Did you invite Simone here tonight?” Trevor asked.

            “I did, but she didn’t think it would be her scene,” Chandra replied.

            “Give her another call.  You can use the phone in Malcolm’s office.  This is exactly her scene.”

            Chandra laughed.  “I don’t think she cares for your music, my dear.  But I’ll see if they’re willing to come out.”

            As soon as his wife was out of earshot, Trevor leaned in closer to them.  “Simone’s a hardcore dyke,” he told them.  “She and her girlfriend had a mock wedding and everything.”  He chuckled.  “So, like I said, they’ll fit in around here, yeah?”

            “…yeah…” Arthur said, his voice uncomfortable.  He’d gotten rather touchy about slurs and other insulting epithets ever since he started working at _Freedoms_.  But of course he was too polite to say anything about it.

            “That explains a lot,” Curt commented, trying to draw the conversation past Trevor’s poor word choice.  “If she’s a lesbian, no wonder she was willing to be open about the gay couples in the Greek myths.”

            Trevor chuckled, and shook his head.  “You oughta see the one the publishing companies all refused.  It was about Sappho.”

            “No wonder the publishers refused it,” Arthur sighed.  “Pity there weren’t any presses who’d take it.  But I thought there were small companies that focused on books for and by homosexuals.”

            “Yeah, she found one like that, but it only publishes academic books.  And it’s more for gay men than for lesbians.”  Trevor shrugged.  “You meet any publishers in the States who’d print a book like that?”

            “Can’t think of any,” Arthur admitted, “but my former editor might know some.”

            About the time that Chandra came back to report that Simone and her wife were on their way, the Flaming Creatures took the stage and started playing.  Arthur’s reaction was instant delight, so much so that Curt was once again fighting jealousy.  He knew it was stupid to be jealous that Arthur was paying attention to his exes, but Arthur was always getting jealous whenever Curt so much as talked to Tommy, so he had every right to get just as jealous.  Probably.

            The Creatures were still on stage when Simone Dancer and her wife arrived.  Chandra brought them over to the table where Curt was trying to keep Arthur from watching his ex-lovers performing, and the new arrivals made for a welcome distraction.  From what Trevor had said, Curt had expected Simone Dancer to be rather butch, but on seeing her, he realized he’d already seen her picture before on the back of one of her books, and there was nothing in her appearance to mark her out as a lesbian:  she looked like any other attractive woman in her thirties, with shoulder-length hair and a nicely made-up face.  Her wife, Penelope, was similarly normal in appearance.  They could probably walk down a thousand streets together without anyone suspecting they were actually lovers.  Then again, that was probably what most lesbians were like.

            Simone was flattered to learn that Mick liked her work, and when Arthur suggested that she contact Ms. Forsyth to see if there were any publishers in the United States who might take her Sappho book, she accepted the suggestion gladly, then smiled at him curiously.  “You used to work for _Freedoms_?”

            “Er, yes.  For several years.  I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.”

            “I contribute the occasional article to a magazine for London’s lesbian population,” she explained, “and they sometimes reprint articles from _Freedoms_.”

            “Oh, that’s why his name seemed familiar!” Penelope exclaimed.  “In the latest issue, that story about how much trouble it is to raise children in New York!”

            “I haven’t had the chance to read that one yet,” Simone commented.

            To Curt’s surprise, Arthur scowled.  “If my articles are bein’ reprinted, I should be gettin’ some sort of compensation, surely,” he muttered.  “That bloody woman has no respect for anyone…”

            Curt stroked his thigh gently.  “That’s why I was so eager for you to change jobs, remember?”

            Arthur nodded.

            By this point, the two women were looking at them somewhat uncomfortably.  Penelope did her best to smile, turning to look at Curt.  “So, what did you say _you_ do?  You’re some sort of musician?”

            “…some sort, yeah…”  There was something crushing about learning there were people in his generation who had never even fucking heard of him.  So much for being a ‘big star.’

            Arthur laughed.  “You must not follow popular music at all,” he commented.

            “No, not really.”

            “Didn’t you ever listen to the radio in the ‘70s?” Trevor asked, looking at Penelope with horror.

            “I was much too busy studying to waste time on music,” Penelope said, shaking her head.  “I spent most of the ‘70s at university, getting my degrees.”

            “What do you do that needs so much studying?” Curt asked.

            “Mostly, I teach, while waiting for funding on my research projects,” Penelope said.  “My area of specialty is molecular biology.”

            Curt shook his head.  “Shit.  The most biology I ever did was cutting up a dead animal in high school.”

            “I wonder how many frogs have given their lives to provide teenage boys a few sick thrills?” Arthur sighed sadly.

            “Frogs?”  Curt laughed.  “You must be confusing me with someone who went to a school with money.  They sent the janitor out into the woods with a shotgun, and we dissected whatever he could bring back that hadn’t been torn up too bad.  So it was mostly squirrels and rabbits and shit.”

            “That’s horrible!” Simone exclaimed.  “What kind of school would do something so ghastly?”

            “A school filled mostly with the inbred kids out of a seedy trailer park in Upper Michigan,” Curt told her.  “I didn’t exactly grow up in a fucking rose garden.”

            “It can’t have been very good for your education,” Penelope commented, after a moment.  “Dissecting an animal that’s been shot would be good if you were studying forensics, but for the purposes of learning basic anatomy, it would be dreadfully deficient.”

            “Penny, that is _not_ the point,” Simone insisted.

            Chandra chuckled, and looked over at the men.  “Simone’s a vegetarian, you know.”

            “Oh?  Sorry he told such a disagreeable story, then,” Arthur said.

            Simone seemed quite pacified by Arthur’s apology—maybe Brits apologized so much because it was expected of them to do so?—and the conversation moved on to the subject of the housing market.  Simone and Penelope, it turned out, were full of suggestions about where Arthur should look to find them a house.

            They were so full of suggestions that they kept talking about fucking house-hunting all the way up to midnight.  What a depressing way to ring in 1989.  Sure, Curt hadn’t been expecting another live television concert, but they could at _least_ have been having sex!

            Would that have been so much to ask?


	45. Chapter 45

            Buying a house in London turned out to be a more difficult prospect than Arthur had expected.  He had known it wasn’t going to be easy, of course, but he still hadn’t expected anything quite so difficult.  By the time they finally found something that would do—a nice little place in North London—he felt like they should have been paying Malcolm rent.  Mick had long since started attending school, but since they didn’t know where they were going to live, they’d had no choice but to send him to a public school.  Arthur still wasn’t sure if that was the better or worse alternative.  The rich kids at a public school would likely be more arrogant in their treatment of an American boy with such low-class origins, but perhaps they were also more likely to have two fathers or two mothers themselves, and thus less likely to taunt him for his father’s sexual orientation.

            Even after they bought the house, they still had to furnish it, since they’d left all their furniture behind in New York.  They didn’t even start moving into their new home until the middle of April, and didn’t finish unpacking their belongings until June.

            They had hardly finished unpacking before one Tuesday night when Curt announced he’d hired a babysitter for the evening, and he and Arthur were going out.  Arthur found that they were going back to the club where the Death of Glitter concert had been held, fifteen years earlier.  After a lovely romantic dinner, they carefully slipped up the stairs when no one was looking, and quietly recreated their beautiful first night together.  Only this time, they left the roof together, arm in arm, and went home to sleep cuddled up in their own bed.

            That heavenly memory kept Arthur buoyant for months.

            Initially, he hadn’t been sure moving back to England was a good idea, but after they had been there eight or nine months, Arthur was astonished he had ever resisted it.  Curt fit in better in London than Arthur ever had in New York, and Mick was much happier at his new school than he had been at his school in New York.  The boy even had friends.

            And, for the first time in fifteen years, Arthur was in regular contact with his mother.  He had to be careful about calling her, because his father was—somehow—even more unpleasant than he had been fifteen years ago, only now he was retired and never out of the house to work.  The only positive side to that was that his father no longer recognised Arthur’s voice, so if he called and his father answered, Arthur could pretend to be someone calling the wrong number.

            His new job entailed a lot of research, but Steve was every bit as pleasant a fellow as Pearl had said, so it felt less stressful than the work for _Freedoms_ had.  And Curt was performing at Malcolm’s club at least once a week, so Arthur got to hear him perform in a live venue regularly.  Even if it did sometimes make him fret that someone else would manage to seduce Curt away from him, it was still a delight to hear Curt singing on stage.

 

***

 

            It was January of 1990 when Steve asked Arthur to write up a piece on the compact disc format for _Orpheus_.  The format had been around for some time, but was only just gaining some commercial viability.  To get a good idea of the quality of the medium, he had acquired not only some compact disc recordings and a player, but also a really heavy-duty pair of headphones, so he could listen to the music without any outside noise to distract him.

            He ended up using a recording of the Doors as his main sample, listening to it first on a record—not Curt’s old record from the ‘60s, but a brand new pressing that was crisp and had better audio quality—then on a cassette, and finally on the compact disc.  After the significantly reduced quality of the audio tape, the compact disc sounded amazing, and after a while, Arthur couldn’t help singing along.

            He was still singing when he became aware that Curt was standing right in front of him.  Instantly, he stopped, and yanked the headphones off his head.  Curt was looking at him with a bemused expression.  “What?!” Arthur demanded, trying to hide his embarrassment.

            “You really suck,” Curt told him.  “Don’t ever sing again, okay?”

            “Up yours, you bloody wanker!”

            Curt laughed, and knelt down on the sofa, straddling him.  “So what’s going on?” he asked.  “Why am I coming home and finding you singing another man’s songs?”

            “It’s your own fault.  Your music’s not on a CD yet,” Arthur laughed, then explained his current assignment.

            “It can’t sound as good as vinyl,” Curt insisted.

            Arthur shrugged.  “You want to ‘ave a listen?”

            “Yeah, gimme that.”  Curt put on the headphones without moving off Arthur’s lap.  All Arthur could do as Curt listened to the music was lean forward, resting his head on his lover’s chest.  He could hear the music throbbing through Curt’s torso, giving the entire experience an eerie, otherworldly feeling.  Eventually, Curt took the headphones back off.  “Okay, that does sound pretty good,” he admitted.  Then, of course, he had to get up, turn off the CD, and put on the record again, listening to it through the headphones as well.  “Pretty close,” Curt announced, when he took the headphones off again.  “But the vinyl’s still better.”

            “It beats the cassette, though.”

            “Yeah, no question,” Curt agreed.  Then he sat down beside Arthur.  “So, you have time to talk, right?”

            “Of course, love.  Is something wrong?”

            “No, not that kind of talk,” Curt assured him, with a chuckle.  “But…uh…have you ever regretted that Mick’s not your kid?”

            “What?”

            “I mean, haven’t you ever wished you had a kid, too?  Or…”

            “Or what?” Arthur asked.  This line of conversation was decidedly bizarre, and unlike Curt all around.  “What’s goin’ on?  ‘Oo’s got you worryin’ about this stuff?”

            Curt laughed.  “No need to get nervous, baby,” he said, slipping his arm around Arthur and pulling him close.  “I just ran into Penelope Dancer earlier, and she was telling me about this research project of hers.  She thinks she can swap out the nucleus of a sperm and the nucleus of an egg, so that two women can have a kid together, or two men.”

            “I’m quite positive that’s not possible.”

            Curt shrugged.  “Well, _she_ thinks it’s possible.  So…have you ever wished we could have a kid, you know, together?”

            Arthur smiled, and kissed him.  “My love, I’m very happy as we are.  I don’t need to pass on my genes to another generation.”

            “Oh.”

            “You want me to want that?”

            Curt cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “I may kind of have told her we’d do it,” he said.

            “Do what?”

            “Provide sperm for her experiment.  She’s gonna use one of her eggs and one of Simone’s, and then turn one of the eggs into a sperm and a sperm into an egg, so she needs two men to help, too, right?  And so I told her we’d do it, and then they’d have a kid together and we’d have a kid together, and—”

            Arthur chuckled gently.  “You really are a hopeless romantic, Curt.”

            “You don’t want to?”

            “I didn’t say that,” Arthur assured him.  “Of course I’d love it if we could ‘ave a baby that genuinely belonged to both of us.  But I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t think it’s possible, no matter what Penelope Dancer has to say on the subject.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Arthur's singing comes to you courtesy of the "Fanfiction Pet Peeves" thread this year on the NaNo forums. Someone mentioned how much they hated it when one half of a couple would overhear the other singing and immediately insist that they were so very fantastic, et cetera, and as soon as I read that, I wanted to have this happen. :P (Besides, it is plausible that Arthur can't sing, because if he *was* a good singer, why did he never end up actually joining the band?)


	46. Chapter 46

            After going to her lab to provide sperm—which was possibly the least romantic or satisfying jerk-off session Curt had ever had—they didn’t hear back from Penelope Dancer for about six months.  Then she and Simone suddenly stopped by the house one afternoon.  After some uncomfortable small talk about whether Simone’s Sappho book was finally being published or not, Penelope broached the subject with a heavy-hearted look on her face.

            “All my experiments have failed,” she admitted.  “I can swap the nuclei between the two gametes, but then they always die before fertilization can occur.”

            “Hardly surprisin’,” Arthur commented.  “It’s too much to ask of modern technology.  I’m sure your records will let people do it successfully in a few decades, though.”

            Penelope nodded, but she still looked like she was going to cry.  Simone patted her hand gently, then looked at Arthur.  “We had always planned on carrying both babies to term ourselves,” she explained, “so now that we can’t have a baby together, we thought one of us would have one in the normal way, and we were hoping to use some of the sperm you donated for that purpose.”

            “Me?  Uh…sure, yeah, that’s fine,” Arthur replied, flushing slightly.  He always got so embarrassed whenever anything seemed even slightly like a compliment…

            “Since we were both expecting to be pregnant together,” Simone went on, “we could both carry your baby, if you’d still like to have another child.”

            “I…um…”  Arthur looked at Curt, his eyes flustered.

            “It’s fine by me,” Curt assured him.  “I mean, we were sort of planning on a new baby, right?”  At least, Curt had been.  He’d picked which room to convert into the nursery and everything.

            Arthur nodded, with a small smile, then looked back at the women.  “I guess we’ll do it, then, if you’re really sure you don’t mind.  Oh, we’d pay for the medical expenses, of course!” he added hastily.

            “Of course,” Simone agreed, with a tight smile that told Curt she had been planning to demand that whether they offered or not.

            “Which one of you wants to be the father?” Penelope asked.  “Does it matter which of us is the mother?”

            “I’ve already got a kid, so Arthur should be the father,” Curt said.  “I don’t think it matters who the mother is.  Not to me, anyway.”

            “You’re both lovely people, so either of you would be fine by me,” Arthur assured them.

            Simone and Penelope both looked a bit disappointed by the answer.  “Now what?” Penelope asked.

            “Well…” Simone started, then stopped, biting her lip.  The two of them conversed quietly for a few minutes before Simone looked back over at them.  “Since there’s about a fifty-fifty chance of a boy or a girl, it seems probable that we’d have one of each,” she said.  “That being the case, shall we say that you’ll get the boy and we’ll keep the girl?”

            “Makes sense to me,” Curt agreed.  All his planning had been for another boy, after all.

            They spent a little while longer hammering out the details, then the Dancers left, probably headed straight for the lab to get the process going.  When Mick got home from his soccer—no, football—game, Curt was finally going to have to have a talk with him about the whole ‘new baby’ situation.  He’d been putting it off so far, since they hadn’t been 100% sure if there really was going to be a baby or not.

            But while they were waiting, there were still other things to talk about on the subject.  “What do you want to call him?” Curt asked.

            “Isn’t it a little soon to be thinkin’ about that?” Arthur asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “The future mum’s not even pregnant yet.”

            “But she’s gonna be.”

            Arthur sighed.  “I take it you already have a name in mind.”

            “Yeah,” Curt said, with a nervous laugh.  “I was thinking we could name him James, after Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix.”

            Strangely, Arthur frowned.  “He’d ‘ave my name, wouldn’t he?  Or would he still be called ‘Wild’ so our family unit wouldn’t look so strange?”

            “No, of course he’d have your name.”

            “Then James is out of the question.”

            “Why?”  Curt didn’t see any possible rationale for that.  Unless it was some weird hang-up about Jimmy Stewart.

            “If his name was James Stuart, he’d have the same name as three of the most dour, humorless men in British history,” Arthur said.

            “I don’t follow.”

            Arthur frowned at him.  “Really, Curt, a little history wouldn’t kill you.”  He shook his head.  “Two kings of England were named James Stuart.  And so’s my father.”

            Curt cleared his throat.  “Y-yeah…good reason,” he agreed.  Curt wouldn’t want to name a kid after _his_ father, either.  “Wait, aside from translating the Bible, neither King James did anything people liked, right?”

            “I’m pretty sure he only bankrolled the translation,” Arthur chuckled.  “Also he was a patron of Shakespeare.  But other than that, yes, he’s well unloved.  And James II was ousted in a revolution, though at least the Dutch had the decency not to kill him.  What’s your point?”

            “Well, that being the case, why would anyone named Stuart name their kid James?”

            “Aside from American ignorance?” Arthur laughed.  “Allegedly, we’re descended from the royal Stuarts.”

            “You gotta be shitting me.”

            Arthur shook his head.  “There’s an old joke that a king’s supposed to be the father of his country, and Charles II tried to take the notion literally.”  He shrugged.  “According to family legend, some chambermaid he dallied with got with child, and my father’s the direct descendent of that bastard.  I don’t know that it’s true, though.  Not really the sort of thing you could ever prove.”

            “Boy, if you could, you could try claiming the throne, huh?”

            “Me and half the country,” Arthur laughed.  “He had fourteen acknowledged illegitimate children, and I’m sure he left behind dozens more who _weren’t_ acknowledged, and after three hundred years…”

            “Still, we should keep it in mind.  Just in case.”

            “Right.  Just in case,” Arthur agreed, with another laugh.

            “So…what _are_ we gonna name him?” Curt asked.

            “We’ve got at least nine months to worry about that,” Arthur sighed.  “We don’t ‘ave to decide it right now.”

            Curt didn’t want to let go of the topic so quickly, because he _knew_ Arthur wasn’t going to want to talk about it again until the baby was actually born and the hospital staff were waiting impatiently to know what name to write on the foot of his bassinet.  So he kept trying to press the subject until Mick got home.

            Mick had gone straight up to his room to change out of his soccer duds, so Curt had to follow him up.  As soon as he tried opening the door, Mick pitched a fit.  He was starting to get fussy about that sort of thing.  Therefore, Curt ended up waiting in the hall until Mick had finished changing.

            “So what’s up?” Mick asked as Curt came in.

            “Mick, uh, have you ever thought about—have you ever wanted a brother?”

            The boy looked at him suspiciously for a minute.  “You’re not breaking up with Arthur over some girl, are you?”

            “Of course not!”

            Mick let out a little breath.  It wasn’t quite a sigh of relief, but it was pretty close.  “So why ask, then?”

            “Well, Arthur and I—mostly just me, really—uh—wait…I had all this planned out earlier…”  Mick just laughed at him as Curt tried to gather up his thoughts.  When had he stopped being so happy to have a dad?  He used to act like Curt was his hero; now he acted like Curt was a pain in his ass.  “See, what happened is that Simone and Penelope want to have a kid, and since I’d been thinking it’d be good if Arthur had a kid of his own, Arthur’s gonna be the father, and—”

            “Dad, is any of this actually gonna change anything for _me_?  If they’re gonna have Arthur’s kid and it’s gonna live at their house, why should I care?”

            “No, no, they’re each having his kid.  They’re gonna keep one and we’re gonna keep one.”

            “Why?”

            “Why what?”

            “Why do you want another kid?” Mick asked.  His face was level, but his voice was shaking just a bit.

            “Mick…”

            “Don’t give me any of the stuff parents usually give their kids,” Mick said, scowling at him.  “This isn’t like a mom just getting pregnant by accident—you’re _choosing_ to do this!  I’m not good enough for you anymore?”  How did Mick end up with the mentality of a two year old and the attitude of a teenager?  He was barely even ten!

            “C’mon, you know that’s not it,” Curt said, trying to keep his temper.  Mick could get pretty unstable, after all…  “Think about this from Arthur’s perspective.  He’s not actually related to you—he’s not even your step-father, ‘cause we can’t get married.  You know how sensitive he is to stuff like that; it makes him get awkward at the weirdest times.  I want him to know what it’s like to really be a father.”  Curt laughed uncomfortably.  “Besides, it’s like sending a big ‘fuck you’ to all those assholes who think men like us shouldn’t pass on our genes to another generation.”

            Mick’s angry face relaxed, and he laughed, shaking his head.  “You do like flipping people off,” he sighed.  “It’s actually kinda embarrassing, Dad.  You still act like you’re a teenager.”

            “So you’re going to be okay with getting a baby brother, right?”

            “Would it change anything if I wasn’t?” Mick asked.

            “No, not really.”

            “Then why ask?”

            Curt shrugged.  “Seemed like the thing to do, I guess.”

            Mick sighed.  “You’re such a smeghead, Dad.”

            “Where did you hear that word?”

            “On the telly.”

            “Oh.”  He was going to look like a complete moron if he asked what it meant, so Curt just went back downstairs and sat down on the sofa beside Arthur.  “My son is completely English now,” he moaned.

            “You’re the one who wanted me to take the job,” Arthur reminded him.

            “I know, but I thought he’d at least stay an American for a _little_ while!”

            “Kids pick things up fast.  What’s got you so worked up?”

            “Lots of little stuff.”  Curt paused, then looked at Arthur curiously.  “What’s a smeghead?” he asked.

            “Never heard of it.  Is that something Mick said?”

            “Yeah.  He said he got it off the TV.”

            Arthur made a curious little ‘hmm’ noise, and shook his head.  “No idea.  Must be some new slang.  I’ll ask about if you like.”

            “Nah, that’s okay.  I’ll ask the guys at the club.  They watch a lot of TV,” Curt laughed.

            “Maybe Mick’s old enough to come watch you perform,” Arthur suggested.  “It’s frustratin’ ‘aving to miss so many of your performances…”

            “I’m not sure he’d want to,” Curt sighed.  “But I guess he’s not old enough to trust him at home alone, either…”  He shrugged.  “It _is_ summer, though.  He can go stay with a friend or something.”

            “Yeah,” Arthur agreed, leaning in close against his side.  “That sounds good, love.”


	47. Chapter 47

            Simone and Penelope checked in with them every so often during their pregnancies, but mostly just to collect recompense for their medical bills.  At first, Arthur had felt rather like Curt had forced him into this whole fatherhood endeavour.  But from the first time he set his hand on Simone’s distended belly and felt his child kicking, he couldn’t help starting to feel excited about it.  A tiny little life—two tiny little lives—that he had helped to create…how could he not get excited about it?

            He didn’t like to talk about it, however.  If they spent too long talking about the new baby, Mick might think that they didn’t love him anymore.  And the longer they spent talking about mothers and motherhood, the more risk that Mick would ask just when his mother was getting out of jail, and if she would be coming to England to join them.  As of the last letter Candi had sent to Curt, she was sure that she was starting to show symptoms, and the thought terrified her.  The symptoms she described sounded more like a combination of a cold and nerves than AIDS, but…unless the tests were mistaken, it was only a matter of time.

            Fortunately, Arthur was too caught up in his own life to spend much time worrying about Mick’s mother.  Both the Dancers were due to give birth in mid-April, and as that deadline grew closer and closer, Arthur had trouble concentrating on anything else.  What would happen if both children were boys?  The mothers would be cross about that; they were so set on having a girl.  Would the government give them any grief about two men being the sole custodians of a newborn infant?  What would happen if the new baby decided it hated Arthur?

            Penelope went into labour several days before her expected delivery date, and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Which Curt promptly described as a noisy, red onion.  Arthur refused to speak to him for hours over that.  Penelope and Simone decided to name their girl Coral, which Arthur told them was the loveliest name.  However, when Curt said—on the way back to the house—that Coral Dancer sounded like a mermaid-themed stripper, it was hard for Arthur to argue with him.  Especially since he wasn’t yet ready to _talk_ to him, but he wouldn’t have had any real way to argue with it even he _had_ been speaking to him at that moment.

            Unlike her wife’s, Simone’s labour was late by almost a week, and lasted nearly a full day.  Arthur had tried to stay with her, as the father, but it was too exhausting.  Especially since, unlike a normal father, he wasn’t motivated by any love of the mother.  So he just went home, telling Penelope to call him after the baby was born.

            When Penelope finally did call, her voice was strained.  “They’re doing a C-section now,” she said.  “Something was going wrong, and they were afraid they’d lose the baby…”

            “We’ll be right there,” Arthur told her, adding assurances that she should have faith in the hospital staff, because they surely knew what they were about.

            By the time Arthur and Curt arrived at the hospital, the procedure was over, and Simone was recuperating from her lengthy ordeal.  So as not to disturb her, they let a nurse lead them to the area where the newborn babies were sleeping.  One of the other nurses brought a baby out of the bassinet, and over to the window so they could see.  The baby had a sweet little face, and a few wisps of dark brown hair.  And a pink blanket.

            “It’s a girl?” Curt asked, looking at the baby with dismay.

            “Seems that way,” Arthur agreed.

            “We already painted the nursery blue.”

            “So?  A girl can have a blue room as easily as a boy can,” Arthur pointed out.  “You ought to be more worried about the fact that neither of us knows the first sodding thing about little girls.”

            Curt sighed.  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

            As the nurse was leading them back to Simone’s room, she gave Arthur a friendly smile.  “Have you and your wife decided what to name the baby?” she asked.

            “Wife?!” Curt shouted, staring at the woman in horror.  “Just ‘cause I’ve got long hair doesn’t make me a fucking woman!”

            “Considerin’ how patchy your shave this morning was, no one could ever think that,” Arthur sighed.  “I think she was referrin’ to Simone.”

            Curt grimaced, and shook his head in disgust.

            The nurse smiled at them uncomfortably.  “I didn’t mean to offend,” she said weakly.

            “It’s all right,” Arthur assured her.  “We know we’re not typical.  And no, we haven’t decided on a name yet.”

            By the time they got back to her room, Simone was awake, and sitting up in the bed.  “Penny was just telling me,” she said.  “Sorry it wasn’t a boy.”

            Arthur smiled, and shook his head.  “Unless I’m misrememberin’ what little biology I learnt in school, it’s my fault she turned out a girl.  But will it be all right?  Between us, we know a little about women, but not much about girls.”

            “She won’t know anything about girls, either,” Simone laughed.  “You can learn it along with her.  That’s how most parents deal with it, in the long run.”

            Though he didn’t quite follow that, Arthur nodded.

            “When are we gonna take her home?” Curt asked.  “We’ve never really discussed the legal stuff, either.”

            “They want to look after her for a day or two, because the birth was so rough.  And you needn’t worry about the legal side of things.  Since your name will be on the birth certificate as the father,” Penelope said, looking at Arthur, “it’ll be just as if you and Simone were involved and broke up.  In that circumstance, it’s not unheard of for the father to take custody.  Unusual, but not unprecedented.  No one will complain, because there’s no one _to_ complain.  But she’ll need a name to put on the birth certificate.”

            Arthur and Curt looked at each other for a moment, then looked back at the Dancers.  “We’ll figure something out by the time she’s ready to leave the hospital,” Arthur assured them.

            After wishing Simone a speedy recovery, they headed home again.  The whole way, they were discussing what to name the baby.  Mick was home from school by the time they got there, so they asked if he wanted in on the discussion, but he insisted that he didn’t care in the slightest.

            It wasn’t until they got up the next morning that Curt announced he’d had the perfect idea.  “I said earlier I wanted to name the kid after Jim Morrison, right?”

            “Yeah, so?”  Arthur hoped he wasn’t planning on naming her Jamie; that would have all the same objections, despite the slight shift.

            “So, since she’s a girl, let’s name her after Janis Joplin instead.”

            Arthur laughed.  “All right,” he agreed.  If she had to spend her whole life spelling her name for people—as he had no doubt she would—then at least that might distract them from thinking about her father’s sexuality.  Besides, it was a nice name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I may have to use "Coral Dancer" as a name in some original work sometime. It's a fun name...


	48. Chapter 48

            For the first six months, Simone came by to check on Janis at least every other day, long after the point at which Arthur and Curt had proven that they were fully capable of raising an infant without constant assistance from the baby’s mother.  They were also plagued by near-constant visits from Arthur’s mother.  It was hard for Curt to entirely blame her—after all, she now had a true grandchild, as opposed to a…step-grandchild?—but her presence just annoyed him all around.  All the more so when Curt stopped to think about the fact that surely she must have already had proper grandchildren from Arthur’s older brother, who was homophobicly straight.  But Arthur never mentioned his brother if he could avoid it—just like Curt didn’t mention his own brother—and since Curt did his best not to even talk to Arthur’s mother, he didn’t know what was going on there.  Better not to ask, no matter what.

            After Simone finally started to calm down—or maybe just got more caught up in taking care of Coral—things at the house began to feel a little more natural.  It was still weird, trying to take care of an infant, but they’d begun to get into the rhythm of it a bit.  Curt was _not_ going to miss dirty diapers, though.  Disgusting things.  And they were the only things about taking care of the baby that Mick _wouldn’t_ help with.  He’d hold her and feed her and play with her, but he wouldn’t come anywhere near her when her diaper started stinking.  Curt couldn’t blame him for that.  He didn’t want to come near them, either, but if he didn’t do it when Arthur was out of the house, then it wouldn’t get done.  And Arthur was often out, since he was working almost as hard at _Orpheus_ as he had at _Freedoms_ , though he seemed much more pleased by the experience.  Well, of course he did:  Steve was actually a good boss, unlike that bitch at _Freedoms_.

            One afternoon, about a month before Janis’s first birthday, the phone rang, and Arthur answered it, because Janis had fallen asleep on Curt’s lap while he was watching TV.  From the disappointment and even anger creeping over Arthur’s face as he listened to the person on the other end, Curt was afraid it was the school, calling to say Mick had done something really awful.  When Arthur said “It’s for you,” that only seemed to make it more certain that it was the school.

            Curt accepted the portable phone that Arthur handed him, but was almost afraid to lift it to his ear.  “Who is it?” he asked quietly.

            “Tommy Stone.”

            With a relieved chuckle, Curt held the phone up to his face as best he could without moving his other hand and waking the baby.  “Hello?” he said, a bit quietly.  Janis could wake up pretty easy…

            “Not interrupting anything, am I?”  Weird for him to worry about that!

            “No, not really.  The baby’s just sleeping.  What’s up?”

            A deep sigh.  “I’m not the jealous type, am I?”

            “You are absolutely the jealous type.  Why?”

            “Mandy’s thinking of re-marrying.”

            Fucking hell.  She’d barely even _dated_ anyone since getting divorced.  “Seriously?”

            “Yes.  And I hate him.  She says I’m just jealous, but…I’m positive that’s not it.  He’s taking advantage of her!”

            “Mandy’s a grown woman,” Curt reminded him.  “She’s very capable of looking after herself.”

            “He’s fifteen years younger than she is!”

            “Shit, really?  Okay, that’s pretty weird.  I mean, last time I saw her, Mandy was still pretty hot, but…I can’t imagine a younger guy wanting to marry her.”

            “Is _that_ why he’s callin’?” Arthur laughed.  “He’s jealous because Mandy’s marryin’ a younger man?”

            Curt nodded.  “I think you need an impartial opinion,” he said into the phone.  “Someone who’s met the guy.  What does Shannon think of him?”

            “I don’t know.  The first time she met him, she liked him, but the next time she said he seemed like a sexual predator.”  Tommy sighed.  “She’s been acting more and more oddly of late…”

            “Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?” Curt laughed.

            “It’s just hormones.”

            “She’s not old enough to be menopausal, surely.”  Shannon was definitely younger than Tommy, and he was a couple years younger than Curt, so…

            “No, no, she’s expecting.”

            “Fuck, you didn’t tell me that!  Congrats.”

            From the uncomfortable noise Tommy made, he didn’t want to be congratulated on his future child.  “How bad is it?” he asked.  “Taking care of a baby.”

            “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it when she smiles at you.”  Curt laughed.  “Though she’s not actually my baby, of course.  But she kind of is, too, you know?”

            “Of course she’s your baby, too,” Arthur said, frowning at him.  “I think she likes you better than me, in fact.”

            “Hey, when was the last time you talked to Trevor?” Curt asked Tommy.  “He’s got kids, you know.  You could ask him for advice.”

            “Trevor…?  1977, I think.”

            Curt sighed.  “Pathetic, man, pathetic.  Just get over yourself and call your old friends.  They forgave you a long time ago.  Need me to give you his number?”

            “No, I’m sure Mandy has it.”

            “Yeah, probably.  But isn’t that—”  Curt was cut off as Janis woke up and started bawling.

            Arthur sighed, and picked up the squirming baby off Curt’s lap.  “It’s my turn,” he said, “but try and finish up your phone call in case I need help.”

            Curt nodded as Arthur took Janis into the next room.  “Speaking of the jealous type…” he muttered.  Arthur was usually pretty chill about Curt talking to other men, but he always got so damned prickly about Tommy.  Even though he was on the other side of an ocean now.

            Tommy laughed.  “Sounds like you’re the one with trouble in paradise.”

            “No, only when you call.  But you know me.  I don’t mind a bit of trouble once in a while.”

            “You used to go looking for it.”

            “Yeah, but I was a lot younger then.  And didn’t have two kids to look after.”

            “You’ve done the unthinkable and gotten respectable,” Tommy said, in a gently amused tone.

            “I try to counter that by still doing dumb shit on stage.  Though I guess I’m not performing as often as I was before Janis was born.”  Curt sighed.  “It’s more every other week than every week now.”

            “You haven’t put out a new record in years.”

            “I know.  I _have_ written a few new songs, but…well, putting out a record would require finding a new manager.  Just hopping onto the stage at Malcolm’s club doesn’t take that extra work.”  Made him feel a bit like a has-been, but he’d be feeling that way regardless.  Mick’s friends at school had never even heard of him.  But their parents usually got excited to meet him, because they remembered him at the height of his career, when he and Brian had been…

            “I wouldn’t think it would be hard for you to get a manager now that you’re sober,” Tommy said, with a sad chuckle.

            “Nah, probably not.  Just a lot of hassle,” Curt chuckled.  “Too much business shit in it these days.  It used to be only about the music, you know?”

            “Only because you were too high to pay attention to the rest of it.  It’s always been the music _business_ , after all.”

            Curt shrugged.  “It’s all a big pain in the ass.  You know how hard it is to book time in a studio to record a track or two?  I had to convert one of our spare rooms into a studio not long after we bought this place.”

            “Surely you don’t get any use out of it.”

            “You only think that ‘cause you don’t know how Arthur reacts to seeing me playing.  Easiest way I know to get him in the mood.”  Curt laughed at the slight choking sound Tommy made on the other end of the line.  “I was stupid enough to let Malcolm know about it, though.  Now the Creatures are always wanting to come over to record in it.  I keep telling ‘em next time they ask, I’m gonna start charging ‘em.”

            “Maybe you should,” Tommy suggested.

            “Yeah, that’s what Arthur says, too,” Curt said, “but I—”  Off in the next room, Janis let out a particularly unhappy shriek.

            “Are you sure she’s not _your_ baby?” Tommy asked.  “I can hear her crying from here.  Quite the set of lungs.”

            “Her mother thinks I’m a barbarian,” Curt laughed.  “No way she’d have injected herself with _my_ sperm.  I just hope the girl grows up able to sing better than her father.”  He sighed.  “But she shouldn’t still be crying.  I’m gonna go see if Arthur needs some help.”

            “Good luck.  And take care of yourself.”

            “You, too.”

            Curt hung up the phone, then headed into the other room to help Arthur with their baby.


	49. Chapter 49

            They had decided years ago that their proper anniversary would be the anniversary of their first date.  Spontaneous sex in the dressing room at a television studio was hardly worthy of being recognised as the start of a serious relationship, no matter how good it had felt at the time.  Arthur had begun planning their tenth anniversary as soon as New Year’s Day rolled around in 1994.  It was going to have to be very special, but it couldn’t be _too_ special, since it fell on a week night.  Mick could stay with a friend, hopefully, and Janis could always be sent to her mother’s for a night, but they couldn’t take a proper holiday anywhere; it would have to stay local in London.  But unlike the anniversary of the day they met, there wasn’t any special place associated with the anniversary itself.  Not on this side of the Atlantic, at any rate.

            Curt didn’t mention the anniversary until the end of January.  “I was thinking,” he commented, as Arthur was trying to write the story that was due the next week, “that we should get matching tattoos for our anniversary.”

            “Tattoos?” Arthur repeated.  What in the world had made him think _that_ would ever be a good idea?

            “Yeah.  Matching dick tattoos,” Curt replied, with that roguish grin.

            “I don’t think I need a penis tattooed on me,” Arthur sighed.

            “No, matching tattoos _on_ our—”

            “No!”  If there was one place on his body that Arthur absolutely, positively refused to have anyone inject ink, it was there.

            Curt spent the next twenty-four hours sulking.  He even looked sullen while they were having sex, which was a rather impressive trick, Arthur thought.

            About a week later, Arthur was struggling to get Janis’s hair washed—she had entered a phase where she absolutely detested bathing—when Curt came up beside him, already grinning.  “Okay, I’ve got it this time,” Curt announced.

            “Oh?  Got what?”

            “You can get my name tattooed on your ass,” Curt said, “and I’ll get your name tattooed right here,” he said, setting a hand on his pelvis, beside his package.  “That when our names will grind up against each other while we’re having sex.”

            “And what about if we do it turned about the other way round?” Arthur countered.  “They’d just be pointlessly announcing each other’s name to the void.”

            “Well, we could get two, so they’d still be grinding together either way,” Curt offered.

            “Curt, love, I really don’t want to get a tattoo,” Arthur sighed.

            “What’s a tattoo?” Janis asked.

            “A tattoo is like a drawing on your body,” Arthur told her.  “You go into a special shop, and they prick you over and over with needles—”  To illustrate the concept, he started poking her belly lightly with his finger, making her giggle.  “—and draw the picture inside your skin so it’ll never wash off.”

            Still giggling, Janis pushed his finger away from her stomach.  “What if you don’t like the picture?” she asked.

            “You’re still stuck with it forever and ever,” Arthur said.  “That’s why I don’t want one.  That and all those needles.”

            “You think you’re gonna get tired of my name?” Curt asked, sounding very sour indeed.

            “Of course not, love,” Arthur assured him, with a light kiss.  “But what if they spelt it wrong?  Besides, imagine how that would look when we get old and wrinkled.  It’d say ‘Crt Wd’ instead of ‘Curt Wild.’”

            Curt  laughed.  “Okay, okay.  You win.  No tattoos.”  He gave Arthur a deep kiss.  “I’ll just think of something else.”  Then he wandered off without helping deal with Janis’s bath.

            Arthur had to handle all the actual preparations for their anniversary; Curt was only prepared to deal in abstract, absurd concepts for romantic gestures, not the day-to-day realities surrounding them.  He made arrangements for Janis to stay with Simone and Penelope that night, asked Mick to stay with a friend, and made reservations at a particularly romantic restaurant that they both loved but rarely visited.  The hardest part was dealing with Mick, as the boy resisted the idea considerably.  Well, he _was_ a teenager now—if not by all that much—so obeying his parents was hardly something he enjoyed.  And perhaps among fourteen year old boys, staying over at a friend’s house for the night was considered embarrassing.  Or maybe he just hated the idea of his father and Arthur going out for a proper romantic evening.  At least Janis was cooperative.  As she was not quite four, the biggest hurdle had been convincing her that they weren’t sending her away because they didn’t love her, and assuring her that she’d be coming right back home in the morning, with both her fathers happy to have her back again.

            On the night of their anniversary, they both got nicely dressed up, though Curt—as often happened when he dressed up—seemed to have forgotten it was no longer the 1970s.  But he looked so good dressed that way that Arthur couldn’t bring himself to object.  He didn’t even reprimand him for having varnished his nails.  Arthur was just wearing a nice, normal suit, of course, though he did make sure to wear the green pin through his lapel.  It was beautifully offset by his dark grey shirt, he thought.

            Their table at the restaurant was in a secluded booth where they could talk without anyone overhearing, which was good, considering that they were both being utterly unabashed in the romantic nature of their conversation.  And why shouldn’t they be?  They had nothing to be ashamed of.  And London in the ‘90s, while not as forgiving as London in the early ‘70s, was far more accepting than New York in the ‘80s had been.

            After their appetizers had come and gone, Curt produced a small gift box from the pocket of his leather duster.  “Here,” he said, setting it in front of Arthur.  “In celebration of ten years with the most beautiful man on the planet.”

            Arthur laughed gently.  “I think you need to start wearin’ glasses, my love,” he said, even as he gave Curt’s hand a warm squeeze.  Then he carefully opened the wrapping on the package.

            What was inside looked suspiciously like a ring box.  But surely Curt knew better than that!

            Opening the hinged box, Arthur saw two gold rings.  For a moment, he actually thought they really were wedding bands.  Then he realised that they were gold hoop earrings.  A somewhat odd gift, considering that the piercing holes in his ears had grown closed more than ten years ago.

            “Earrings?” Arthur asked, looking at Curt curiously.

            “Look closer at them.”

            Arthur took one out of box, and tried to find the ‘sweet spot’ that would let him get a good look at them.  If they got too close to his face, they’d just be a giant blur, but as they were, he couldn’t really see much detail…

            Curt sighed.  “Put your glasses on first, ninny.”

            “I left my glasses at home on the bedside table.  I wasn’t plannin’ on doin’ any reading!”  He’d already known what he wanted to order, after all.

            Curt scowled at him.  “All right, you can look at them later,” he sighed.

            “What was I supposed to be lookin’ for?”

            Curt took the earring out of Arthur’s hands, then pressed one of his fingers against the interior of the ring.  “Can you feel that?”

            Arthur ran his finger across the interior surface.  “It’s engraved,” he said.  “What’s it say?”

            “One of them has my name on it,” Curt told him.  “That one’s for you to wear.  And the other one has _your_ name on it.”

            Arthur smiled, and moved closer so that he could give Curt a passionate kiss.  “You really are an incurable romantic.”  Carefully, he returned the earring to its box.  “But your ears aren’t pierced, and neither are mine.”

            “Yeah, we’ll have to get them pierced,” Curt admitted.

            “You’re obsessed with ‘aving things stuck into me,” Arthur commented, without thinking about it.  Curt started laughing even before Arthur realised just what he’d said.

            “Well, that _was_ what I was planning on doing after we get home,” Curt chuckled.

            “What if I’d rather ‘ave something stuck into you?” Arthur countered, running his hand across Curt’s thigh.

            “Why not do both?”

            Arthur looked deeply into his lover’s smiling eyes.  “I love you, Curt Wild,” he said, before giving him a long, deep kiss.


	50. Chapter 50

            Mick’s mother had never made parole, and her release had taken a surprisingly long time to process:  though she should originally have been freed in the final weeks of 1992, a mild infraction on her part had added another year to her sentence, making her new sentence conclude in the final weeks of ’93, and yet it wasn’t until the summer of 1994 that she was actually released.  She sent Mick a few letters after getting out.  The last one came in the summer of 1995, in which she told him that she was going to travel to ‘find herself’ and that she’d write him as soon as she did.  Of course, she never wrote again, and both Arthur and Curt had known that she never would.  But Mick had expected he would hear back from her soon, and the longer he went without a word from her, the more he began to panic, and demand that they all fly back to America to look for her.  Eventually, Curt had to explain to Mick the truth that his mother had contracted AIDS, and that this had surely been her way to quietly exit his life so he wouldn’t have to see her suffer.  Arthur suspected she had probably killed herself soon after sending that letter, so she wouldn’t _have_ to suffer, but he could never have brought himself to say so.  No one ever said anything, but he had a feeling that both Curt and Mick had come to the same conclusion.  Mick was despondent for months, and only recovered when one of the girls in his class confessed to having feelings for him.  Then he bounced back as only the young can, going into his first teenage romance with the same gusto as any other boy.  Like most teenage relationships, it didn’t last all that long, but it seemed quite sweet while it lasted.

            When Mick started getting ready to go off to university—having already surpassed both his fathers by completing secondary school—there was some talk of him going to an American college, but Curt was very firmly against that.  He was probably worried that Mick would go hunting for his mother if he went to America alone.  With American schools closed off to him, Mick eventually settled on a university up north.

            Once Mick had gone, the house felt a bit empty.  Janis, of course, tried to make up for her brother’s absence by making twice as much noise as usual.  She also joined her primary school’s choir, causing Curt to express his constant relief that she was a better singer than her father.  Arthur swatted him every time he said it, but that didn’t stop him from saying it again.  Some people were slow to learn.

            There were advantages to being down to only one child, though.  It became much easier to have some quality time alone.  Simone and Penelope were always happy to have Janis come over to visit for a few days, and the girl enjoyed playing with her sister, so she didn’t usually complain, either.

            Arthur was working on the final draft of an article one Friday evening when Curt came home from dropping Janis off at the Dancers’ house.  Coming up right behind him, Curt leaned down, wrapping his arms around Arthur, and started sucking on his unpierced earlobe.  “Let’s go to bed,” Curt whispered into his ear as soon as he released the earlobe.  “We’re gonna take our clothes off and not put them on again until Monday morning.”

            “Did you close all the curtains?” Arthur asked.  “I don’t want any more neighbours callin’ the police because you’re wanderin’ around naked with the windows open.”  It had happened once too often already.

            “Yeah, I closed them!” Curt insisted, a little too quickly.

            “All right, then.  You go on and start gettin’ ready,” Arthur said.  “I’ll just save my work and then I’ll join you.”

            “Hurry,” Curt urged, after one more earlobe suck.

            As soon as Arthur’s computer was shutting down, he hurriedly checked—and closed—the drapes on all the windows on the ground floor, then headed upstairs to their bedroom.  Curt was already naked and rather aroused as he was searching through the drawer of Arthur’s bedside table.  He slammed the drawer shut as Arthur entered the room and started disrobing.

            “Dammit!  Why hasn’t modern science invented the self-lubing ass yet?!” Curt whined.

            Arthur laughed.  “Getting lazy in our old age, are we, love?”

            “I’m not old!  And I’m not lazy, either!  It’s just we’re out of lube!”

            Arthur sighed.  It was too late to go to the chemist’s and get more…  “Well, we’ll just ‘ave to do something tonight that doesn’t require any lube,” he said, joining Curt on the bed.

            “But we’ll still have to get some tomorrow,” Curt grumbled.  “And that means we’ll have to put clothes on after all.”

            “You’re so spoiled,” Arthur chuckled.  “A few hours in clothes won’t ruin our weekend.”

            Curt continued grumbling irritably until Arthur kissed him to put an end to the grumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this is "The End" of the story.
> 
> But there's an epilogue, which I'll be posting tomorrow.


	51. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the images don't show up, or you can't read them, let me know, and I'll transcribe the text into a note at the end.

June, 2011

 

 

 

            Arthur stormed into the den, where Curt was watching the telly.  “Curt, what in the world did you tell my daughter?!” he demanded.

            Curt shrugged.  “I was just telling her about the time you got food poisoning at my favourite restaurant in Little Italy.”

            “How the bloody hell did that turn into me cheating on you in the men’s toilet?!”

            Curt started laughing so hard he nearly fell off the sofa.  “That girl’s just like you—so highly strung.”

            “Curt…”

            “Look, it was totally innocent, see?”  Curt picked up his phone off the table next to his beer, and called up the text messages he had exchanged with Janis.

            Arthur looked at the messages with disgust.  “Why didn’t you just explain that the autocorrect changed the word you wrote?!”

            “This seemed like more fun.”

            “Don’t go accusing me of adultery because it ‘seems like fun’!” Arthur shouted.

            “Hey, calm down before you have an aneurism or something.”

            “I want you to explain to Janis that you were just messing with her, and that I never cheated on you,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice level.

            Curt sighed miserably, and accepted his phone back.  “All right, all right.  I don’t know when you got to be so fucking high maintenance…” he muttered as he started typing out a text with one hesitant finger.

            “It’s not ‘high maintenance’ to ask you not to lie to our children!”

            “Hey, Mick would have known I was joking,” Curt replied, as if that was any defence.

            “But you weren’t saying it to _him_ , were you?  And don’t you dare say it to him now!”

            “Is that all you think of me?”  Curt’s tone was wounded, but his eyes were sparkling with mischief.  Obviously, he had been planning exactly that.  Possibly still was…

            Arthur watched like a hawk the whole time Curt typed in the explanation, then waited anxiously for Janis’s reply.  It eventually came back as “omg, I don’t even know which of you is more embarrassing!”  The idea of what she must think of them—of what she must have been telling her friends about them—was terrifying, all the more so since she was currently on the other side of an ocean.  Arthur was beginning, in fact, to regret that they had ever agreed to allow Janis and her friends stay at their long-disused flat in New York for a few weeks.  Mandy and her new husband were supposed to be ‘looking after’ them, but that could easily turn out to be worse than the alternative…

            Curt turned his phone off, set it aside, and got to his feet.  “Now,” he said, taking Arthur’s away and turning _it_ off, too, “I think you need some time away from all this shit.”

            “Oh?  Did you have something in mind?”

            “Yeah.  We’re gonna go upstairs, and you’re gonna get dick.”

            Arthur laughed, and kissed his lover passionately.  “I’m always up for that,” he agreed.


End file.
